


love doesn't live here

by vivacissimo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Family Dynamics, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Jaehaerys Targaryen's A+ Parenting, Past Abuse, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Touch Averse Viserra, Viserra lives, for every ship, rarepair so this is just for me :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:28:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 60,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28942218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivacissimo/pseuds/vivacissimo
Summary: Viserra Targaryen's life as the reluctant Lady of White Harbor was not one of songs, not with her insufferable husband as unbearable as he is old, and his magnetic young heir Desmond seemingly despising her.Baelon the Brave never feels less brave than when he steals a crown from his beloved brother Aemon's daughter, all while raising his two quarrelsome sons alone.When a widowed Viserra returns to King's Landing only six years after she was sent away, their parallel journeys of healing bring them together in the unlikeliest of ways. But ghosts of the past (alongside new revelations) aren't quite done with them yet.
Relationships: Baelon "The Brave" Targaryen/Viserra Targaryen, Baelon "the Brave" Targaryen/Alyssa Targaryen (past), Viserra Targaryen/Desmond Manderly, Viserra Targaryen/Theomore Manderly (unhappy)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 48





	1. the first goodbye

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this is a completely self-indulgent slow burn fix-it rarepair story that i thought of at the grocery store one day. obviously, no minor character is too minor for me. i hate the way grrm wrote viserra as a scapegoat for saera's "sins," and equally, f&b totally skips the immense turmoil baelon must have experienced during his life. this is a happy ending insofar as happy endings are possible. jaehaerys and alysanne are not villains, they're parents who try their best and sometimes fail, and viserra/baelon aren't saints either - just people struggling thru trauma and personal demons. that's showbiz baby!
> 
> trigger warning: this *will* deal with heavy themes like miscarriage, grief, suicidal ideation, trauma recovery, etc. tags will be updated as we go. 
> 
> [minor changes to canon, but nothing major (besides viserra living ofc)]

**King's Landing, 87 AC**

**Prince Baelon the Brave**

Every day of his life feels longer than the last. Every day drags on, more voices blending into the incomprehensible din that surrounds him each and every hour—drowning him and his thoughts away. The shortness of the days were additionally maddening, the longevity of the winter sun as effective as a kitchen fire for all the works that needed be done. 

Over the past few years, after Saera and Daella and Mother’s increasingly long absences, Baelon found rest, true rest, nearly impossible to come by. His bones were those of a man a decade his elder, he would complain to Aemon, who only ever scoffed and indulged Baelon with a round in the training yard to remind them both they were still young men. With blood running hot through his veins and the sheen of sweat on his muscles, all his worries dissipated like the frost of the morning did from the petals of plants. But when he looked to the sidelines and could not find those mismatched eyes _(the green one was emerald, the purple one amethyst, and they both laughed with a pure joy only she ever had, for he never did anymore)_ , the heaviness always returned.

Instead, the only sister he found in the crowd was Viserra, who was surely the prettiest maiden Baelon had ever laid eyes upon. She reminded him of a fox for some reason, sly and graceful, always effortlessly twisting her way into the hearts of those around her. If only she had been Saera’s elder, none of those boys would have even glanced at his now disgraced sister...it does none of them any good to think of her, Baelon reminds himself. 

_You will make peace, and I will make sons,_ he had once boasted to his brother. Well, he had the sons, but he was no longer convinced his was the easier lot in life, Baelon thinks humorlessly. 

Was there ever a six year old as troublesome as Daemon? If there was, Baelon never had the displeasure to meet them. The boy spoke in High Valyrian constantly merely to anger his maesters and teachers, who could not hope to command the language as a true son of the Dragon could. Viserys did not temper his younger brother whatsoever, and indulged his bad behavior. Aemon would have had Baelon’s hide if he ever placed a salamander in a septa’s drawers, but evidently Viserys was of no such ilk.

Then again, neither was Baelon. He often meant to punish one or the other boy, but when he went to gather a switch, or raise his hand—he found he could not do it. Alyssa would not have been pleased to see him beat their precious children, no matter how naughty they were. And they were all he had left of her, truly.

 _Viserys and Daemon and a lifetime of memories,_ he reminded himself. _That, and two graves on Dragonstone that I have never visited. Because I am a coward._

He dreamed of her nearly every night. Aegon was sometimes there as well, always a babe no matter that he would have been three years old now. Sometimes he wasn’t there, and Alyssa was naked, teasing and taunting him with the body he knew as well as his own. On those blessed nights, he would wake achingly hard from the visions of his sleep, finishing himself with his hand with his eyes screwed tight. In his nightmares, she was pregnant, straining and screaming in birth. 

Tonight would be a bad night, he could already feel it. Dinner with Daemon and Viserys had been excruciating, the brothers fighting and nasty. _Were Aemon and I ever so belligerent? I think not._

Then again, it had not been just him and Aemon and Alyssa and Jocelyn at the dinner tables, even though it felt as if it was at times. Perhaps through some property of transfer, he was being punished for failing to mediate between Vaegon and Daella, or too often leaving Saera’s venomous barbs towards Viserra unchallenged. 

Entering his chambers, Baelon exhales deeply, closing his eyes as the doors shut tightly behind him. There is a fire in the hearth, although not as strong as he would like, and he places logs on it himself rather than go through the ordeal of calling for a page. It was their duty of course, but Baelon simply could not be fucked after the day he had. He tears at the ties on his tunic instead, ripping it off and throwing it to the floor. He does the same to his boots.

He should do his ablutions, of course, but he merely wishes to lie down for a small moment, just to relax for a blink first. The day had been so long, and the night was already so unforgiving…

A feminine giggle interrupts his thoughts.

It comes from his bed, and after the shock wears off Baelon rushes to tear back the curtains and discover who the culprit is. A rage hits him—did these women of court respect his wife’s memory so little as to be so brazen? They were always throwing themselves at him, letting their breasts go half uncovered or wearing gowns tight around the flesh of a generous arse if they had one. Alyssa had been well endowed, particularly after birth, but it was fundamentally _her_ , not her assets that he’d loved, when would these ambitious girls understand that?

He did not look at any of them even once. Viserra often sat by his side during public feasts these days, chatty and excitable with him and his boys, at times successfully cajoling him to dance. She was still half a girl to Baelon, but he appreciated the intimidating effect she had on others of her sex.

Viserra was the only girl he had danced with since Alyssa had left him all alone, for he did not wish to give any lady the wrong idea. And it was a naked Viserra who was artfully arranged on his bedspread now, all skin and curves, cheekbones flushed pink as could be.

 _Oh Viserra,_ his heart sinks, the red rage leaving him, even as he could not help but notice her petite figure. _When did you become this?_

“Baelon,” she smiles happily, eyes heavily lidded and not meeting his, not while they are attached to his bare chest. She glides to him, raised up on her knees before he can even form a word of warning. She is normally graceful, but now she wobbles slightly now, and he instinctively attempts to catch her. She lays her warm hands across his chest for balance and Baelon resents that the touch makes him shiver.

 _I have not been touched in so long, even the hand of a maid barely flowered affects me,_ he realizes bitterly. But he does not wish for a woman’s touch, spurns it at every chance always. Such was his fidelity to the queen of his heart; to Alyssa.

“Dear me,” Viserra giggles, grasping his shoulders firmly and tugging him backwards with surprising strength when she falls to the bedspread behind her. It is only his warrior training that stops him from collapsing on top of her, merely landing on his knees.

“Viserra,” he says sternly, the same tone he used with his children not an hour prior, rolling off to the side. She moves quickly, though, spreading her body eagerly across his and straddling him.

“Oh, Baelon,” she murmurs, balancing on one hand next to his head while she touches his face tenderly with the other. It feels good, damn him. Damn her as well.

“What are you doing here?” he asks harshly, pleased at the pout on her face. He hopes she only needs a few harsh words, for she is merely young and foolish, and upset with her betrothal.

“What am I doing here?” she repeats, eyes cloudy, “I am here out of my feelings for you, Baelon. I love you and I have for so long. I wish to be yours and to give you my maidenhead on this auspicious night.”

She throws her hair back, sitting up and letting him see her breasts more clearly. When he glances for a moment, she gasps in glee, and cups them in her hands playfully. 

_Soft, full, and firm, with nipples the colour of dusk roses._ He tears his eyes away in shame and anger. 

“And what would I want with your maidenhead, when your maidenhead is for your husband,” he barks at her, the tone of affection and jest he normally gives her erased completely. It is a less effective reprimand because he refuses to look in her eyes.

She laughs bitterly. “My husband? That hideous old man? Nay, Baelon, you can see yourself that he is no fit husband for me. You are the one I desire, the man I love above all—”

“What do you know of love?” he demands, meeting her eyes and grabbing her small hands that are rubbing his chest. She is taken aback by the force employed, even though he is using none. Despite their situation, she was still his little sister, and he could not hurt her. 

Her claim of love pains him, however. The only woman who ever knew him is Alyssa, and she is the only one who ever loved him in the way Viserra believes she does. 

“I know I love you,” she insists, turning her wrists inside out to clasp over his, tricking them into cupping her firm rear. He would tear his hands away, but she begins to rock herself lightly against his body, and he uses the grip to hold her still instead. The situation might be repulsive to him, to the memory of his beloved, but his cock has a mind of it’s own, and it is already hard. More than, in truth, and he hates himself for it. 

The body did not rule him, though, his mind did. Viserra’s unblemished flesh could not tempt him truly, although he could see now that she was fashioned without flaw. _Her betrothal was a waste of a beautiful girl, that was clear; but it was Mother’s wish, and she had lost so much already. Surely they must trust her wisdom, now more than ever._

“I know you are a Prince without peer, kind and generous and loving,” she cries, frustrated at her immobility, “I know the sight of you makes me wet, Baelon. I know I hate those bitches who try to flirt with you, not when you should be _mine_. Who else should you wed but me? I swear that there is nothing I would deny you Baelon, just as all know Alyssa denied you nothing.”

Speaking on Alyssa was the exact wrong move. Even her name was sacrosanct to Baelon, and it had no place being associated with this...disgrace. He was struck with the sudden urge to fuck Viserra, to ride her hard until she saw that she was no match for him at all, that she was a stupid girl with fanciful dreams, no better than the courtly women she claimed to hate. To take out his frustrations on her, _show_ her why she should never speak Alyssa’s name again.

Just as the urge hit him it fled. His body sags for a moment, something she takes as acquiescence but is actually the complete opposite. He could never do such a thing, not in a thousand decades.

She attempts to kiss him, sloppy and inexperienced, and he finally snaps. When he throws her onto the bedding and stands up in one movement, she yelps, turning her large eyes onto him. He takes deep breaths to calm himself and force his body into submission once more.

“Baelon,” she says once more with a pleading note to her voice now. “Baelon, please, I wish to be yours. I will be a good wife to you, I already love your sons, and I will give you such pleasure as you desire, however you wish it! Such is my love, now come have me—”

He laughs darkly, and she loses her words at the sound. The worst part of him is pleased to see this reaction. _She must learn that her beauty will not get her everything she desires. Men are not so malleable as she thinks they are._

“You wish for me to wed and bed you, so that your Manderly Lord will be without his bride,” he says, emotionless. He does not look at her, grabbing his tunic from the floor and donning it once more. “You wish to undue moons and years of diplomacy Mother and Father have done, all so that you may have a handsomer groom, is it not? You have no love for me, Viserra, only for what I may give you. And that is no excuse for such wanton behavior, for being in my bed naked when you are promised elsewhere.”

He looks to the desk that lies to the side. A discarded glass sits besides the uncorked decanter. 

“Naked and drunk,” he amends, finally placing the brunt of his disapproving look upon her. As a parent, it comes to him naturally.

She worries her bottom lip as she sits up, enticing even in her innocent pose as she forgets herself. _She is no accomplished seducer, that is for certain,_ he observes drily.

“I only drank for my own maiden nerves, and to ease away any pain so you might have your pleasure more easily,” Viserra insists, her small hands fluttering. He frowns in disgust.

Did she think that was what would happen to her on her wedding night? She had not been prepared well for this at all. Unbidden, thoughts of his own wedding night came to mind, how Alyssa had served up her maidenhead after teasing him with it for so long. He spent an hour with his face between her thighs, until she was so relaxed and wet that sliding inside of her had felt like coming home.

It had been that. Being with Alyssa, the days and weeks they lost within their bedchambers, it was where he belonged, and where he could never be again. The memories turned to ash and smoke as Viserra stood from the bed and threw her arms around him, pressing her face to his chest. 

Baelon felt his dead heart lurch when Viserra gazed up at him, tears in her eyes.

“I do love you,” she whispers. 

“Nay,” he disagrees, shoulders dropped low. There was no honor in this, not even in turning her away. But he could not blame her, not truly. She was begging him for a love he could not give, her reasons as human as breathing, “you do not, nor do I wish for your love. It is time you take your leave, sister.”

He picks up her folded dress from the floor and maneuvers her into it. She cries softly, trying to touch his fingers with her, to make him look upon her. But he is in no mood to indulge her any longer, nor has he ever been a source of comfort and guidance for her. _Perhaps that had been his failure._

“Men all desire me,” she exclaims fitfully as a last ditch effort, when he has wrapped her in his cloak to make her decent. “You would be the envy of all Court, brother, if you had me, and I would never shame you. I would be proud to be yours and only yours. For I have never wanted any man but you, Baelon.”

“It is not I you want,” he tells her sadly, and does not miss the indignance that passes over her eyes. _Who are you to tell me what I want,_ they scream at him. “It is a place of honor as my wife you covet, an escape from a marriage you resent. And that I will not give you.”

He delivers her to her chambers, detaching her small grasping hands from him and bidding her goodnight hastily. 

It has been such a _long_ fucking day.

* * *

Baelon had given it thought, and came to the conclusion that he did not have a choice but to approach his parents. He understood Viserra’s actions somewhat, even if he hated himself for his reaction, but after Saera…

If King Jaehaerys and Queen Alysanne had to suffer another daughter such as Saera, he fears the Realm will not survive it. 

That, and Viserra requires guidance. A woman’s hand, to teach her softness for the husband she already despises. She will be better off for it, he tells himself. It is nearly convincing.

The anger from his father surprises even Baelon, and Aemon’s attempts at calming the situation are wildly ineffective. Jaehaerys calls for Viserra, and as soon as she steps a timid foot into their father’s solar, she levels an accusing glare at Baelon, as if he had done all of this.

Gone are her pretenses of the previous night, he thinks. Now he is equivalent to all the other men and boys she looks down upon. So be it, he has no need for her affection.

“Who taught you such methods, Viserra,” Jaehaerys demands darkly, every inch the King who had slain young Lord Beesbury with Saera forced to watch. “Did your sister teach you this? Tell me now, girl!”

“No,” she shrieks, face red and panicked, “no, I was never part of Saera’s games, Papa! I only—” _love Baelon_ , is likely what she was going to say, but one sharp look from him and she reconsiders, “—I only wished to show how unfit that Manderly Lord is by finding a more fit match of my own!”

“So you would make yourself a whore?” he bellows, righteous fury raining down on Baelon’s ten-and-five year old sister.

To her credit she does not weep, although she is taking deep breaths to make that happen.

“I am no whore,” she persists, “but neither am I a broodmare, to be sold to some fat old man to get children upon me who will inherit _nothing!_ ”

Queen Alysanne interrupts, soothing and kind as she always is. She coos, cradling Viserra’s head. “Darling girl, do not despair so. Lord Manderly is good and honorable, and he will love you as no other can. During my time in his home, he showed such grace and generosity to me, and I have no doubt he will do the same for you. You will see, your mother loves you and she made you a good match.”

“I don’t _want_ this match, mother! You are not listening,” Viserra pleads. She rips her hand from Alysanne and their mother dons a look of hurt.

Baelon and Aemon exchange a worried glance. This is not going well at all…

“Father,” Aemon interrupts, a born peacemaker, “perhaps we might request the presence of the good septon at dinner this eve, to guide us forward with the wisdom of the Crone, for we are accomplishing little with our blood running so hot.”

Jaehaerys shakes his head. _When his mind is made there is no diverting him._ “There is no need for that. I see plainly what is before me.” 

Viserra turns to Baelon with her large orchid eyes, beseeching him one last time to save her, but he dares not open his mouth. Not when their father is in a black rage such as this.

“You will not set foot in court,” Jaehaerys begins, “you will spend your days in your rooms, in the sept, or in the library with a guard. I will not suffer you shaming our House, or our blood, and that is _not_ a negotiation. Should you set even a hair out of line, I will ship you to the Silent Sisters without delay, and leave a Kingsguard with you to ensure you cannot escape. _Do not test me, Viserra,_ or you will not like my response!”

Viserra sobs then, unable to hold it back any longer. “I have not done anything but attempt to fix the disaster you insist on making, you blind old man,” she chokes out. 

“Viserra!” Alysanne exclaims. 

“Your insolence knows no bounds,” their father seethes, and Baleon can see that his heart is broken by this. How much can one man be expected to bear from his daughters; Baelon cannot help but sympathize. “It seems you have no need for your family’s guidance. Well, I shall grant you your wish—when you go to White Harbor, it will be _alone,_ with none of your blood standing beside you. That is your father’s wedding gift to you.”

Baelon cannot abide this any longer. Viserra was undoubtedly foolish, but this reaction is too cruel by half, and he is her big brother.

“Father, there is no need for such a measure,” he reasons, “she is of the dragon blood and spoke thoughtlessly, acted even moreso, but she has learned her lesson.” Viserra is blessedly silent.

Aemon seamlessly agrees with him, always Baelon’s partner. “Yes, and if you please father, let me escort her away now. Kinder words will be spoken later, I am sure.” He goes to take Viserra’s arm lightly but she flinches violently.

“Do not touch me!” she screams, as if the words were torn from her throat, but then composes herself; smoothing back her hair and looking every bit the haughty princess that she is.

“Your Grace,” she calls, voice shaking, and Jaehaerys raises his head to meet her head-on. 

She shrinks but does not wilt. They do battle with their eyes alone for a time and Baelon’s throat feels cramped. _Is peace never an option for her?_

“You Grace, I will take Saera’s punishment if it pleases you. Rest assured I will never forget this lesson.” She sweeps from the room then, leaving behind her the wreckage of her words. 

Aemon gathers their mother into his arms, soothing her as only he can. His father collapses into his chair, head heavy in his hands. Baelon looks out the window that faces the adjacent courtyard, and watches Viserra fall to her knees, heaving in Lady Darke’s armored embrace.

Perhaps he should have spoken to his mother alone, Baelon winces. Alas, today is just another long day in a stretch of long days.

* * *

“Where is Aunt Viserra?” Rhaenys complains for as many times in the past two weeks. She stabs her fork into her boiled potatoes, scrunching up her face when they are not to her liking. Aemon sprinkles salt and powdered pepper onto his one-and-ten year old daughter’s dinner, devoted to her every comfort. She smiles sweetly at him and he kisses her upon the forehead.

Was there anything Aemon desired beyond the company and happiness of his daughter and his wife? It did not seem so to Baelon. Other men would have wished for sons, but Crown Prince Aemon was much unperturbed and never displeased.

The girl was spoiled, Baelon thought, but no more than any other princess. Now that she was coming of age however, her quirks were not quite so adorable any longer.

“She rests and prepares for her upcoming travels, my love,” soft-spoken Jocelyn replies. Baelon does not look up.

“Well I am tired of having no one but two little boys running around underfoot always,” Rhaenys declares imperiously. _Born to be Queen, that one._ “Can she not come to sup with us even once? She does not even like her betrothed to be so concerned with pleasing him.”

“I am not little!” Daemon yells, sticking his tongue.

“Enough!” Baelon brusquely ends the argument before it can start. This is why he does not enjoy intimate family dinners any longer. They are always chock full of tantrums from his and Aemon's much-loved brats, who fed upon each other and became incorrigible in each other’s company. 

Daemon sniffs, and Viserys ruffles his hair affectionately. It needs a trim, Baelon notes, but as all things were with Daemon, making him part with his hair was an ordeal on par with the Doom of Valyria.

Only his grandmother Alysanne could bring him to do something without fuss and hassle. But she had much bigger concerns recently. Baelon’s parents had been quiet thus far on the topic of Viserra with the rest of their family, yet Court was beginning to whisper of her disappearance. It was not difficult to guess that her upcoming wedding had something to do with her sudden absence from all public functions, and rumors flew through the air as if carried by messenger birds.

“May I be excused?” Rhaenys requests as soon as she can. 

“But we haven’t had dessert yet!” Viserys exclaims, and both Rhaenys and Daemon rolled their eyes. So they were capable of getting along after all, Baelon thinks wryly, so long as Viserys was their common target.

Aemon lets her go, however, and so Viserys begrudgingly fulfilled his duty of escorting his cousin to her chambers at night. It was his, Aemon, and Jocelyn’s hope that affection might bloom between the two of them on these late night walks, perhaps they may even trade a few kisses, and then a happy marriage could be made in several years' time. So far, nothing had been accomplished but separating Viserys from his beloved dessert.

Baelon dismisses himself soon after, and takes Daemon with him despite the boy’s protests. The pitying eyes of his parents follow him, but they know enough not to attempt to speak to him on the elephant in the room this evening. Any other, but not this evening.

“Papa,” Daemon hesitates when Baelon has brought him to the chambers that Viserys is likely already within. _Soon they will be old enough to be separated, but was it so bad that he wished for his boys to remain children for as long as they could? Keep them as they were when Alyssa was here?_

“Yes, son?” he replies gruffly, kneeling down to Daemon’s level.

“Viserys said...Viserys said tomorrow is an important day.”

Baelon smiles sadly. “Aye, sweet boy. Tomorrow is your mother’s nameday. Her twenty-seventh.”

Daemon scowls at being named sweet, but his face softens at mention of his mother. 

“I miss her,” he mumbles, his six-year-old who had been motherless for nearly three years already.

“As do I,” Baelon agrees, and embraces the boy. “I miss her as much as I love you, Daemon. You and your brother both.”

“I love you too, Papa,” Daemon only whispers, uncomfortable with words of love. It was not his fault, he was born to two who were all harsh laughter and fast-paced love wrapped in layers of good hearted mockery. His and Alyssa’s love was a daring one, love borne on the back of a dragon, fearlessly streaking through the air with no place for doubt or tender courtly kindnesses. Daemon came by his emotional reticence honestly, even if that version of his parents no longer exists. 

They lived on only in their children, perhaps. And thus his sons were his greatest pride, his sole joy.

Baelon keeps himself in check only long enough to make it to his own bedroom, and when he finally collapses into bed he is struck with the urge to destroy it, to rip apart the pillows he had once shared with his lover, shred the comforters and throw them down to the depths of city below. 

“Alyssa,” he sobs and growls, wishing he could follow her wherever she had gone, wishing she was once again following him closely, never giving him a moment to breathe before her jokes had him bursting with laughter, or lust, or anything. _How long can I be expected to live this way? How much longer?_ “Alyssa!” he yells, boiling with rage and shaking with grief, ripping the sheets and curtains from their bed unless it is bare, bare as his life is, bare as his heart.

“Alyssa, _please_ ,” he begs to the crisp air around him as he falls to his knees, winded, willing her to hear him, willing her to be _with_ him once more.

He falls to sleep with her name on his lips, fitful in his repose.

He does not sleep for long. 

A clamor from the hallway woke him up at the hour of the wolf, making him groan. Casting his eyes around the room and the minor destruction he had wrecked caused him shame, but the din from outside is a welcome distraction from his own heartache.

“What happens here?” he asks, when he sees his father’s soldiers in the hallways. His parents chambers are near, and when he receives no response he hurries over, dressed only as much as need be. Dressed, with Dark Sister in his belt, just in case.

Lord Commander Redwyne is emerging from his parents’ chambers when Baelon skids to a halt in front of them, the white knight's eyes low and heavy.

“Ser Ryam—” 

“Oh, Baelon, thank the Gods you are here,” his mother comes crying, a pristine white robe over her equally fine nightgown. His father follows, although his face are hard, harder than Baelon has seen them since Braxton Beesbury claimed his ancient right to a trial by combat, and King Jaehaerys had raised his own sword in response.

“Mother,” he catches her by the shoulders, “what is the meaning of this?”

“Viserra,” she sobs and takes his hand, shallow breaths belying her panic. _What have you done, sister,_ Baelon’s hackles rise. 

“If Your Graces would come with me,” Ser Ryam interrupts, and with a short glance at Baelon's royal sires, their flustered party of four makes their way to the infirmary. Baelon is practically carrying his mother by the time they arrive, clutching his tunic like Daemon still does at times.

He supposes he has never seen his mother this way. When Daenerys died, he was kept from the rooms for fear he might develop the disease. The blood curdling shriek he heard from the chambers his elder sister died in was rattling, yes, but he had not seen his mother for weeks following. 

After Daella, his mother had only returned after the initial grieving was done, and with Alyssa, he had been trapped by the crushing weight of his own despair, unable to know his mother from a horse for all he was lucid to the outside world. After Saera, he suspects his mother grieved immensely, but he was more concerned with curtailing his father’s rage, which flew and deep and red as a sea transformed by blood, as the smoking seas bordering Valyria were said to have become.

It is a sea of blood Baelon sees before him when they enter the rooms, blackened and oozing from the side of Viserra’s pale thigh. The girl herself is half delirious, head lolling around aimlessly as a dozen and one of the Keep’s healers rush around the room.

Bile rises in Baelon’s throat. “What—what is this?” he demands, and the midwives exchange looks.

“Your Grace,” Ser Ryam says tentatively, “the Princess was thrown from her horse.”

“At this hour of night?” he nearly shouts, not comprehending.

Viserra rouses at this moment, rolling over and spewing bile into a bucket kept next to her for that purpose, likely. The stench of it hit Baelon, and it smelled of something other than mere vomit. The remnants of ale hits him all at once, and he gapes.

“Is she _drunk_?” he says aloud, and Grand Maester Elysar chooses now to make himself known. He sits by the fire, warming an ominous looking flattened blade in the flames. 

Baelon thinks he may heave bile himself at the sight of it.

“The Princess was riding her horse drunk and was thrown near the Red Keep,” the nasally man tells him, his thick brows drenched in sweat from his proximity to such heat. A drop of it fell from his nose, and sizzled on the floor. “She races, the girl. Seems she was racing this night, tripped on a cobblestone. The mare will be put down, although it is no fault of hers that her rider took her on such a fool’s errand.”

There are no sounds but his mother’s soft sobs as she clasps Viserra’s listless hand and smooths her hair away from her face. She urges Viserra onto her side so that the midwife can apply a foul-smelling deep green poultice to the wound running parallel to the line of Viserra’s thigh, too much of her inner flesh visible from the cut. 

It will scar, no question. There are a few scattered cuts on her face, blood in the silver gold hair, but those will fade with time. A wound like this was liable to infection if not cared for, but even if it was well-tended to, it would never go away. A reminder of her foolishness.

 _I only drank to ease my maiden nerves_ , she had told him only a few short weeks prior, when she was on her futile endeavour to seduce him. She was drunk now, only a few nights away from her departure to White Harbor. She was only nervous, Baelon realizes. Afraid and alone.

“Who was she racing?” King Jaehaerys asks, tone deadly and cold.

Even with the room sweltering, Baelon shivers when he hears those words spoken so icily.

“Jaehaerys,” Alysanne calls, voice cracking with pain. Her eyes are wide and disbelieving, but even when Jaehaerys looks upon his queen, his wife of decades, his resolve is not weakened. He goes to her, for he will never not go to her when she needs him, but his eyes remain with Baelon. 

“Find her companions. Her maids, whatever squires she entertains, gather them and question them sharply. I will join you when I am able,” he commands, and Baelon bows his head. 

“Look at her. _Look at her, husband_ ,” Baelon’s mother begs, and Jaehaerys reluctantly does.

Baelon does not announce his departure as Maester Elysar stands, the blade glowing red and harsh. The midwives have tied Viserra to the table with thick rinds of rope, and he is not sure he can stomach what is about to follow. She was still so little, the wound so large, and simple stitches would not do. He knows this procedure, he has seen men undergo such treatments before, has seen flesh sizzle as life threatening lacerations are forcibly closed, but never upon his own blood. He slips away, chest heavy.

Halfway down the hallway, Viserra’s spine-chilling scream overtakes him, and he has to lean against the wall as his stomach seizes.

* * *

The Black Cells are dank and freezing, winter as it is, but a dozen torches illuminate the young faces of half a dozen lordlings and maidens that Baelon found to be those who Viserra kept by her side, amongst the many who sought her favor.

Lord Leon Hayford stands foremost with his hands locked behind his back, a tall and strong knight of perhaps nine-and-ten years. His face cannot truly be said to have a beard, although a righteous effort is being made at facial hair, but his eyes were unflinching even when his Prince Baelon Targaryen, wielder of Dark Sister herself, stands before him. His eyes were bloodshot however, and he had still been dressed in bloody clothing when Baelon came to claim him at first light, as if he expected to be roused sooner. 

He was the one to come galloping to the Keep with news of Viserra’s accident, Maester Elysar had told Baelon, so he was correct to expect it.

The rest are not so headstrong. Jonathan Dondarrion was a promising young squire, and he was saying his prayers, apparently a particularly pious boy. But even the pious could be swayed by beauty, and Viserra had that in spades. Bartimos Celtigar was less interesting despite being the heir to Claw Isle, his wicked wit likely what Viserra found delightful about him, and he sat with his head hanging, shaggy silver hair a mess over his narrow shoulders.

Besides them Lady Delena Fossoway was sitting seemingly unperturbed, ever bit the sister of the brave brothers Baelon had once unhorsed handily in a tourney at Ashford, where he named himself the Silver Fool, a name Alyssa had cheekily suggested to him. Lady Pearl Piper and Rue Crabb clutched each other in fear. 

Baelon sits, Dark Sister unsheathed across his thighs. His hair is tied back, and he drums his gloved fingers on his knee. Every moment that passes thus raises the room’s tension another degree.

“So,” he drawls. Six pairs of eyes behold him. “Which of you accompanied my sister last night?”

“Not I!” the Piper and Crabb girls insist immediately, babbling their innocence. Baelon holds up his hand to stop them—he believes them, and his nerves are already frayed enough that their protestations grate on him unimaginably.

“Not you,” Baelon repeats, mockingly. He looks at the Hayford lordling, who does not break the gaze no matter how venomous Baelon is sure he looks. “You, there is no question. Who else, boy? This is your Prince asking, and I will _not_ ask again.”

Lord Leon sucks his teeth and does not speak.

Before Baelon can rise, Lady Fossoway speaks up. “All the rest of us,” she states plainly, no timber of fear or the like in her tone. She opens her eyes and shrugs the accusing glares the Dondarrion and Celtigar lads give her off her shoulders. “The Princess merely wanted to enjoy the city on one of her final nights here. We did nothing we had not done a dozen times before.”

Baelon grunts. Sneaking out is a vice all the Targaryen children have indulged in at times, and he cares not for that. He might have guessed that was a possibility, and he isn’t surprised.

“Fine,” he says, impatient, “where did you go?”

“Last night, or the others?” Lord Jonathan asks when Baelon fixes his sight on him specifically.

“Last night first, then the others. And do recall the Seven punish liars.”

The black haired boy gulps. “Aye. We went to a tavern, your Grace, for food and ale. We played games with the commons, and we three, Bartimos and Leon and I, gambled for a time, may the Gods forgive us. On other nights we rode the Blackwater, or watched mummer’s shows and travelling singers.”

Baelon hums. “And what of brothels?”

The youth appears scandalized. “Brothels, your Grace? Never. The Princess...I would never have permitted such filth in her presence. Nor would the Princess have despoiled herself so. She is beautiful and good.”

 _This blathering septon is madly in love with her,_ Baelon thinks, suddenly uncomfortable. He turns away, not wishing to speak to the boy any longer.

Lord Bartimos is sweating when Baelon turns to him. “And you? What do you have to say for yourself, Lord Celtigar? Did you lie with the Princess?”

Those Valyrian features transformed into a scoff. “Lie with her? Princess Viserra? She found me amusing to keep by her side but she loved me not, your Grace, and besides, I have no wish to become a second Stinger.”

If Baelon closed his eyes, he could recall smug Stinger as clear as day.

_”Which of these old men will you have me fight?" Lord Braxton, vain and haughty, asked from the floor of the Great Hall. The Kingsguard stood stock still, the old men young Stinger thought to best with his morningstar. Saera’s stupidity was shared by all her companions, it seemed._

_“This old man,” the King said, face placid and final. “The one whose daughter you seduced and despoiled.”_

_The Beesbury boy looked as if he had swallowed a scorpion._

“And you,” Baelon turns to Lord Leon expectantly. It was eerie, how long he could go without blinking. “The same question.”

“The same answer. Never.” 

“You will refer to me by my title, Lord Hayford,” Baelon spits, if only because he has had enough of this. “Fine, you did not bed her, let us say I believe you. My sister lies broken and bleeding upon a maester’s table—what explanation have you fools for that? Endangering the life of a royal is still treason last I checked.”

The pair of insipid girls begins sobbing and pleading, wearing the last threads of Baelon’s patience. “Silence!” he booms, and they quiet as much as they are able to, shaking with apprehension.

The serene Fossoway girl is the one he looks upon for a response. “Well?” he probes impatiently.

“We were returning to the Keep, your Grace. Her horse tripped upon a cobblestone, I believe, and she fell upon a wagon barbed with steel. Leon went forward with the Princess, for he commanded the fastest horse.”

“You were racing,” Baelon corrects, “you were racing to the Keep.”

“Yes,” she admits. Baelon does not bother to acknowledge the lack of honorific.

“And you three,” he turns to sneer at the males of the room, “are none of you men that you would stop a drunk girl from riding hard in the black of night? One of you is even a knight, all three of you heirs. Will your ruin your Houses through your idiocy or through your lack of balls, I wonder?”

Finally Lord Leon averts his stare downwards. Bartimos remains silent.

Jonathan breaks, confessing his sins as if Baelon held anointed oils to forgive him with. “She promised us a kiss, your Grace. We all said it was a stupid idea but she promised to kiss the victor and rode off in a cloud.”

“A reward she offered a hundred times,” Leon interrupts, rage in his blue eyes directed at Benjamin. “We raced often and the reward was ever a kiss, but she always won and never kissed any of us. Your Grace.”

For some reason it bothered Baelon that this lordling was defending his sister’s honor. _That is my responsibility, to defend her virtue, but I am the one making accusations upon it instead. And on behalf of our father, who already half believes her a lost cause._

He changes direction.

“And you,” he levels at who may as well be the only girl in the cell, for all her female companions were useless. 

“Myself, your Grace?” she asks, surprised. Baelon nods. “Did I kiss Princess Viserra, your Grace?” Baelon nods again, sharply this time.

Saera kissed her female companions, he recalls. That was how it all started.

“Aye, we played the kissing games of ladies, my Prince. She was...sweet, when it was only us. But girls often play such games, and she never spoke to me of any man whom she favoured.” The muscles of Delena Fossoway’s face tighten then, and she looks to Baelon with more heat than prior. _Any man except you,_ her accusatory gaze seemed to say, _she wished to kiss you and even more, and you rejected and exposed her, and now look what has happened._ Baelon shifts uncomfortably. He is better suited to violence than to delicate interrogations.

He rises, and returns Dark Sister to her home at his side. This is enough for him, he needs no further explanations. He calls for the gaoler, and instructs the man to bring hard bread, cheese and water to the group. He will report his findings to his father, tell them he pressed them hard although he didn’t, and recommend their fast release. They would have to leave King's Landing naturally, but it was a fate far better than others in recent memory.

Before he leaves, however, the voice of Lord Hayford calls to him.

“Prince Baelon,” the man says, forging past the stone glare Baelon bestows upon him, “the Princess. How does she fare? We have heard no news.”

How dare you, Baelon wants to tell him. But it is clear to him that young Leon’s heart is entrapped in his sister's hands, even if he knows it folly, folly does not change that Viserra is sacred to him. 

They love her, Leon and Jonathan and Bartimos, and likely even Lady Delena. If Baelon had the ability to feel anything any longer, he would feel a pinch of shame—Viserra is his family, not theirs, that they might love her better. 

The issue lies not in their love for her, Baelon amends, it is in their acceptance of her nature. Somehow his parents, particularly their father, could not accept her so easily, and it is clear from this interaction that all of Viserra’s companions know that much.

“She lives,” Baelon responds, and relief floods the cell. “And is forever scarred for it.”

* * *

The white dove signaling the start of winter had arrived from the Citadel merely five moons prior, but it feels as if it has been a lifetime. Five lifetimes. He could not say any longer.

The best portion of winter was, by far, the hunting. 

On a winter’s day, with frost painting the kingswood pale, and the wan rays of the sun selective in their fields, game was more vulnerable than ever. The cold permeated boots and cloaks alike, but the thrill of blood rushing when a kill was done made it all worth it, in Prince Baelon’s opinion. Aemon was an undefeatable shot with his bow, and Baelon efficiently slaughtered beasts that sought to escape while injured. It was a system they had perfected from the first time Jaehaerys had taken them on a hunt; they were meant to be spectators, Aemon twelve and him ten, but naturally they had snuck off with only a dagger and a net between them, and caught three rabbits for their efforts.

Their father laughed and congratulated them, their party toasting to them. They were even allowed a mug of ale each, which both of them vomited before the night was done. Nonetheless the memory is a happy one.

They are grown men now, and rabbits no longer a prize. Nay, their prize of that day’s hunt had been one of the fine, rare red elks inhabiting the forest. It was large, so large both he and Aemon were needed to carry it to the tent where they stand now, methodically skinning the beast. 

A flagon of hot tea sits to the side of the enclosed area, and Baelon breaks from where his knife has loosened the final of the four hooves. A sleek slice from Aemon releases the diaphragm of the animal, and Baelon welcomes the stench of a good kill. 

They will present it to their mother. Elk is one of her favorites from her time spent in the North, and it is not so easy to come by in the South where herds of elk are heavily diminished. 

Perhaps Viserra is will be welcomed by a feast featuring elk when she arrives in White Harbor in a day or two's time, Baelon thinks with some guilt. It would certainly outdo the farewell feast she had in King’s Landing…

“Brother,” Aemon calls, a wry and knowing look on his face. “You are thinking again. That is a dangerous sight.”

Baelon rolls his eyes, sipping his steaming tea.

“Will you not share,” Aemon probes. Baelon supposes he should be grateful—Aemon is one of the few who still jape and cajole Baelon, after he became this husk of his former self. 

“I think of our departed sister,” Baelon admits. Aemon winces, as if the same thing has been on his mind. “And our mother,” he adds, although it goes unsaid. They will always worry for their mother.

Aemon sighs, loosening his knife and flapping the hide off to reveal the red and white musculature beneath.

“Our father is not a man who takes well to his daughters misbehaving,” Baelon muses, a massive understatement.

Finally Aemon sets down his knife, removing his gloves coated in the animal’s insides and takes a cup of tea along with Baelon.

“You know, brother, I feel for young Viserra,” Aemon says, and meets Baelon’s eyes. “But I believe it is good she is no longer within the walls of the Keep. Distance...often distance is the solution to the souring of a relationship. It may be that when she returns next, words of apology and forgiveness will flow as if a river from the mouths of father and daughter alike.”

Baelon grunts. He doubts that.

_”Will I ever be allowed to return?” Viserra asked, biting the inside of her cheek to hold back tears._

_“Of course,” Queen Alysanne rushed to console her, “you are recovered now and you shall be on your way to establishing your happy home with Lord Manderly. He will care for you, daughter. Yet we will always be your family.”_

_But it was their sire Viserra looked to for her answer._

_“When you have a child, you will come to King’s Landing to present them to Court,” he replied. And not before, went unsaid. He was speaking not as a father, but as a King._

“He sent her away with much ill-will,” Baelon voices his disbelief, “and alone.”

Aemon nods. “He should not have done that.”

“No?”

“No,” Aemon affirms, setting down his drink. He sighs again. “I am the father to a daughter, Baelon. You are devoted to your boys, but it is not the same as having a girl.”

Aemon adopts a wistful look, thinking on Rhaenys, the girl he would fall on a sword for her if it meant she would always be free from pain or strife. “For one, as a father, you must always remember that the daughter you raise will one day be a wife, and that her husband is an unknown animal. If my daughter, upon my knee, learns that a man might hit her or yell at her, punish her harshly—then what protest might I make when I find my daughter broken and abused in her marital bed, believing she has no recourse from such treatment?”

Baelon winces. “You have clearly given this some thought, Aemon.”

“How not,” the Crown Prince rhetorically asks, a fire in his eyes. “Rhaenys is my sole heir, and she will one day be Queen. She must be a strong woman who will tolerate no mistreatment or else our House suffers for it, do we not?”

When Baelon does not respond, Aemon relaxes slightly. “So yes, I believe our father will regret his words. Our sister was rash to insult him so, but she was correct that she is being punished for Saera’s actions. The wounds are simply too fresh to our father.”

Baelon considers this. “The wounds are fresh indeed, but he must have anticipated such a thing occurring. Even I could have known Viserra would not be pleased with her betrothed.”

Aemon whistles. “Careful, brother, that was strangely close to a political opinion.”

Baelon snorts. “You are not the only one with half a head for the games of lords, Aemon.”

“I should hope not, for you will be my Hand one day,” Aemon huffs and for a moment Baelon laughs with his closest friend from birth, and they are as they always were. It felt good. Why did they not laugh like this more often?

_Because I lost the love of my life and placed my heart upon her funeral pyre, and sometimes I cannot stand to look upon Aemon with Jocelyn and remember when we were four, instead of two plus the shade of what was once a man. Because I love them all too much and I do not want him to see how empty I am._

As if sensing the course Baelon’s thoughts had taken, Aemon nudges him. “I plan to fly for Dragonstone soon, so that Rhaenys and I might spend a few days learning skills upon dragon's back that the good people of King’s Landing would faint to witness. You should join me, brother.”

He knows his brother is only attempting to assist, to guide him to the memorials for Alyssa and little Aegon and help him heal. But Baelon can't.

He did not wish to begin healing. The pain was unbearable yes, but the thought of being without pain, of being left hollow instead of housing the raging storms of mourning that churned within him...that was worse. 

He promised Alyssa he would be hers until the end of his days. He will never let her go, not for anything, much less a temporary peace.

He wonders for a moment if Viserra feels the same way in her new frozen home. If she will dig her nails into her pain and suffering, make it her lifeblood, live and stew in it each day until it is ingrained in her bones as Alyssa, _always Alyssa,_ is engraved into his.

He hopes not. 

“Perhaps I will,” he replies to Aemon, simply because it is what Aemon wishes to hear. The tightening of Aemon’s lips tells him that he sees through Baelon’s lies, but they will both go on pretending, acting as if they are still the boys they once were who never attempted to deceive one another, confiding in one another their secrets and inner thoughts alike. The boys who were in step with each other at every moment, telling one another ghost stories in the room they shared, communicating in a language all their own.

Baelon has a sinking feeling those boys do not exist any longer; that they died the day Aemon was declared Prince of Dragonstone, for the first time reaching a height Baelon could never follow him to. 

Aemon pats him on the back, and they resume gutting the elk in silence.


	2. hold my freezing heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viserra lands on White Harbor's shores, thrust into her new life while she still struggles to make peace with her old one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok so you know when l*na d*nham said she likes to write from a "delusional girl perspective" making her characters both naive and wise? exactly.
> 
> tw: there are strong allusions to unwanted sex here. i have zero interest in writing non/dub-con in any way shape or form, and there is no sexual *violence* in this story. however, although it was period-commonplace, viserra is still a 16 y/o expected to have a sexual relationship with a man she does not want to have one with, and no amount of chivalry erases how that's traumatic. that said i will avoid trauma porn at all costs lol

**White Harbor, 88 AC**

**Princess Viserra Targaryen**

The rocking of the wheelhouse does not bother her leg any longer. After a week spent at sea in the blistering cold, Princess Viserra thinks she may be permanently numb. In truth, she felt this way long before leaving King's Landing.

Her father made sure of that. 

Even now, thousand of leagues away, there is a serpent in her stomach that coils tight when she recalls her cruel and stupid father. It slithers as if made of some cursed ichor within, snaking its way around her ribs and heart.

Beside her, Delena shivers beneath the thick cloak her aunt Lady Florence gifted her for travelling. Delena was the only of her ladies accompanying Viserra to this remote wasteland, the others off to be married or join the Faith. Viserra did not blame them, but she was secretly pleased Delena had chosen to stay—she was, after all, Viserra’s favorite. The placid expression of the Fossoway girl’s face does not change despite the cold, but she cocks her head curiously when she notices Viserra’s intense focus upon her.

“Princess?” she asks, in the same monotone as ever. 

Viserra only humphs and looks away. 

Viserra always liked Delena’s unshakeable calm, her wildly refreshing levelheadedness. Unlike every other simpering idiot who bent to the breeze, Delena was more of a pillar, never swaying to the whims of others. She only did what she wished, and it was below Viserra to envy another, but she did admire her.

Now that Viserra sups on anger and hate, however, Delena is a bit more irksome. Viserra wanted a companion in her righteous indignation, not a tender backrub accompanied by a promise that they would make the best of their situation. _There is no best! The worst outcome is already happening!_

Delena keeps quiet, sensing Viserra is in a mood.

Lord Theomore had not come to the harbor to meet them, nor was he present at the Seal Gate where the wheelhouse had been waiting for them. He was likely too old and fat to sit his horse, Viserra thinks maliciously. 

It was a tall, broad youth of an age with her who had come to escort them. _Lord Desmond, heir to White Harbor,_ he had introduced himself as, and kissed her hand stiffly as he was obligated to. Viserra could immediately see that he took no joy in welcoming her, and likely felt her arrival threatened his own position.

 _Good,_ she thinks, _let all these Northern beasts be threatened by me. That is better than being pitied, which any Princess forced to marry some ancient fuck with one foot in the grave might otherwise be._

They were not even asked if they would prefer to ride or be wheeled; Lord Desmond merely assumed they would require a carriage. He held the door open for them with a sour look upon his face, as if even such a minute action pained him to do. Gods, Viserra already knew she would hate him.

Then again, she had not ridden since that night three moons ago. Her leg still pained her. In ways beyond simply physical.

The cobblestones churn rhythmically beneath their wheels, and every so often a smattering of voices could be heard outside. The marching steps of the fifty knights that accompanied them on two separate boats are loud as well, vibrating the road disagreeably in the tight confines of the wheelhouse loaded with their belongings as well.

Yet she found she did not want the ride to end. Her heart rebelled fiercely even as she sat rigid.

Of course, she was being childish. She never felt more of a child than when she was _permitted_ to have dinner with family the night before her departure, and had broken down weeping at the table when it was only her and her parents. Her mother tried to comfort her. Her father told her there had been enough tears, that her husband would not look kindly upon incessant crying to get her way. 

There have been no tears since. Theomore Manderly will never see her cry.

The wheelhouse comes to a lurching stop. They have arrived, and she must now look upon her miserable new home with false adoration and glee. The serpent slithers. 

The harbor had smelled like a fish market, for it was one, but Blackwater Bay had smelled of fish market, alehouse, and garbage all at once. Nevertheless, she yearns for the capitol instead of this, to be home once more with the familiar filth and dregs. 

Viserra breathes deeply, closing her eyes tightly. _If you weep in front of these people, you may as well drown yourself in the sea!_ In a fit, she grasps Delena’s hand, and the girl seems to have been waiting for that as she seizes Viserra to her chest, cradling her.

“You will always be a Princess,” her friend, the only friend she had in this entire fucking horror, assures her, and Viserra clings to that.

She is a princess. She is a dragon. She does not cower.

The door opens and the stoic face of Lord Desmond comes back into focus, holding his gloved hand out for Viserra to take as she disembarks. 

Viserra rebukes him, ignoring his hand and descends the one step into the yard below. She does not look back to see if Lord Desmon is offended, but he likely is. From the corner of her eyes, she glimpses Delena politely taking the proffered hand, which the princess supposes is just as well. One of them must maintain courtesy, it simply will not be her.

A herald clad in the Manderly seagreen and white blows his brass horn as Viserra takes in New Castle’s whitewashed walls. It was situated atop a hill, and a gentle sea breeze filles the open yard at the top of the impressive stairs. Men are armed with tridents rather than spears or swords, standing tall around the perimeter, an homage to the sea kingdom that the Manderly’s claimed after their fall from power.

The first one, anyway.

A fat and jolly man comes forth first, and Viserra deflates. This could not be. Queen Alysanne could not be _this_ cruel to Viserra, not unless she truly hated her.

Seven Hells, was there a more abominable man? Surely not, for if there was her mother would have married her to _him_ instead. Lord Manderly is heavy set, his hair so thin it was pathetic that he did not simply go bald, and his pale blue eyes are sunken into his leathery face. Viserra amends her assessment: he might still be able to sit a horse, but it is a close thing. 

“Princess Viserra,” he greets warmly, and grabs her hand to bend down with exaggerated flourish, kissing her chilly skin...wetly.

She forces a smile, although it is partly a sneer. She has the look perfected, and no doubt her betrothed will be on the receiving end many times to come.

“My Lord Manderly,” she grits out, and gingerly removes her hand. She does not bother to bow—she will never do that—instead gesturing to Delena behind her. “May I introduce the Lady Delena Fossoway, of the Reach.”

“Surely there is no need to introduce a Manderly to a Fossoway,” Lord Theomore insists heartily, and those in the courtyard laugh as well, “we were once your liege, my Lady, and we are delighted to once again host a Florent under our roof.”

“You honor me, great Lord,” Delena curtsies.

Viserra does not bother to introduce the knights sent in her retinue, none of them of the slightest import, and casts an imperious eye around the harbor. _Remain royal, remain royal, even if you are good as disowned._

“Princess,” Lord Theomore seems to hesitate, although his smile stays wide across his ruddy cheeks. “We are delighted to welcome you, finally. We have awaited you with great trepidation, none more than myself, but I confess, we were under the impression that more members of your family would travel with you?”

Viserra flexes her jaw before settling into a charming if apologetic face. “Indeed, however there has been unexpectedly urgent business for the Crown, and so my royal family extends their greatest apologies for not being able to attend, my Lord. They wished dearly to accompany me, but it was simply not possible. I pray you do not take offense.”

“No offense whatsoever, most beautiful princess! I will miss their presence greatly, but we of course understand.”

_Alas, oaf. You will miss the chance to endear yourself and offer your arse up to my parents that they might grant you even more of your wishes. That was all it took to be gifted me, after all._

Behind him, Viserra can see the scowling face of Lord Desmond, the heir. Lord Theomore notices her gaze, and blusters over to the welcoming line that is assembled and waiting patiently. “Of course, you must meet my family! Here we have my eldest daughters, Mara and Jessamyn. Your mother, may she be blessed, must have regaled you with tales of them already!”

“Indeed,” Viserra replies coolly, “a companion and a cupbearer, was it not?” Servants, the both of them.

“I was the cupbearer, princess,” the one named Jessamyn replies kindly. Her eyes are warm, and Viserra graces her with a smile. 

“Queen Alysanne was so good to the both of us, we are sure to get on as well as a house on fire, princess,” Mara adds, a middle aged woman with grey lines in her hair. 

“Of course!” Viserra responds brightly, lying. 

Theomore continues on, oblivious to any tension. “And my son, Edmund,” he gestures to a portly man with a thick mustache and a belt that squeezed him so tight Viserra feared he would burst. The man grins and nods oddly, and Viserra cocks her head at him. There is an innocence to his face that she recognizes—her sister Gael was also simple, a happy and easygoing girl who lacked complete faculties and was cherished for it. This man is the same as Gael, she realizes, and perhaps that is why he is not the heir despite obviously being Desmond’s elder, she supposes. He kisses her hand, and she nods at him encouragingly when he seems unsure whether to let go.

Gael was the only one Viserra would admit to missing. She despised when Gael was made fun of, and once, when she heard that a band of six squires had taunted her cruelly, she made sure to seek them out, lacing pretty words with batted lashes such as all boys enjoyed. By the time she dared each of them to place their head within Balerion’s mouth, there was nothing they would not have done for her. 

It was a shame none of them had been eaten. Viserra was scolded something fierce, but Gael was better off for it.

Lord Theomore’s family is vast, and by the time they arrive again at Desmond, Viserra’s leg has begun to pain her. The cold irritated the scar of her wound, railing against her determination not to appear weak in front of these people. She grimaces when a jolt of pain strikes her, and realizes too late that the boy across her likely sees it as being directed towards him. 

_Yes, fuck you too,_ she thinks, when his eyes harden towards her.

“And you have already met my heir, young Desmond,” Theomore laughs from his belly, pride clear, and Viserra gives a tight smile. 

“Most fortuitously, yes. Although I must admit I was surprised that you have a son who seems an age with me,” she responds. Her face is all innocent but when Lord Theomore’s drops, a wicked satisfaction feeds her serpent of resentment and rage just a tad.

“Well,” he starts uneasily, “Desmond is my grandson to tell you true. His father was my second eldest, and went to the Gods many years ago I fear.”

“My condolences, I will make a prayer for them,” Viserra bows her head as was appropriate. 

“My _grandsire_ speaks true,” Desmond’s gruff voice ignores her words of sympathy, emphasizing the word grandsire just that much. “You are correct, though, Princess. I am of an age with you.” She looks at him sharply, and the edges of his mouth turn up just a feather, the smirk obvious to her alone. The spark in his gaze tells her that it was intentional, and that he means to rile her up.

Viserra kisses her teeth and turns back to Lord Theomore. She can play games as well.

“My soon to be _husband_ ,” she addresses, “we thank you for your grace and generosity, and look forward to the time we will spend with your family in the coming days. However, my good lady and I have been travelling on arctic waters for a week now. Might we share in the warmth of your castle, if you would be so gracious?”

“Of course, princess!” the pathetic man agrees heartily, “and rest assured we will be your family soon as well.”

“Just so, my Lord,” Viserra agrees, her cheeks burning with effort.

* * *

In the days to come the wedding arrangements take over the castle in a flurry of artisans, cooks, tailors, and the like. Viserra was sized for her dress in King’s Landing ages ago, but there are ermine furs and silver mermaid embroidery detailing to be added to the incredible creation of maroon velvet and raised golden brocade sleeves. It was a gown unparalleled by any Viserra had the fortune to witness in her life, and it would be all hers… hers to wear when she wed _fifty-nine year old, four times widowed, Theomore fucking Manderly._

Viserra once dreamed of her wedding, wrapped in her magnificent gown with the eyes of all upon her, throwing flowers at the hooves of the handsome palfrey she sat to ride into Sept. In her vision, it was Baelon who waited for her—brave, sad Baelon, whose dull eyes would brighten upon realizing that he once again had a lover to devote himself to. In her dream, he took her in his arms and kissed her even before the ceremony started, bellowing to the crowd that how could he be expected to wait? She was more goddess than maid, the bawdy crowd would yell back. 

And Viserra would have made him feel a God in their bed, given him back the family and love he’d lost. Of course he would always miss Alyssa and mourn her, but in due time he would become consumed by Viserra instead, and shed his cloak of suffering. In turn, he would never shame her, never force her to do what did not please her.

Once again, she cursed herself for drinking so heavily that night in his quarters. He’d wanted her at first, she knew that much…

Yet in spite of all she could and did offer, he had sent her away brusquely, and betrayed her to their parents. During her supervised time in the Sept following, she cursed him long and loudly, and her septas had been most upset at Viserra taking the Gods in vain.

But even then, she found she could not hate him, no more than she could hate Saera, or any of her other siblings who had ever left a knife in her back. She was weaned on their love while her mother and father grieved their lost babes Gaemon and Valerion, and by the time her parents thought to love her, she had already outgrown their arms.

And so it was King Jaehaerys she reserved her hate for, and once, _only once!_ she was bold enough to pray for his demise. If he died then Aemon would be King, and Aemon was the kindest soul in their family. He may not understand, but if she begged him hard enough, he could still set aside this betrothal. For how many times had he granted little Rhaenys some far-fetched object of the girl’s desires, simply to see her smile?

Then Viserra had almost died instead, and now she does not bother herself with prayers.

She arrives at breakfast late, as has been her practice. Delena was already there, seated next to that contemptible Desmond, who was acting contrary to his nature and engaging her lady in thoughtful conversation.

“Princess,” Lord Theomore booms, as delighted as ever. Seeing him the first thing every morning has ruined her appetite for the meal. “What a sight for all of us on this fair day!”

“Good morrow,” she greets politely, nodding and smiling gracefully around, and taking a place beside Delena. Thankfully, it was still improper for her and Lord Theomore to be seated too close to one another. 

“Delena, we will visit White Harbor proper upon this day, the two of us and some assorted ladies,” she announces, and then turns to Desmond. “Good man, might you introduce me to my guard? They should escort us, naturally.”

“Your guard?” Desmond looks as if he has swallowed a lemon, “that would be the knights you were sent with, princess. You are already familiar, I trust.”

She caught her sneer at the last moment. “Quite, yet only three of them will remain with me, Sers Olyvar, Waters, and Derron.” _All three of them old and stupid. My mother’s leal creatures._ “However, they are unfamiliar with the city and will not suffice. I am sure the Lady of White Harbor commands her own guard, yes?”

“No,” he scoffs, “there are several dozen members of my House, your Grace. If we all had assigned guards, we would need to swear every knight in the North to our service. If you require an escort, you can request one from the man who commands our garrison.”

“And who might that be, my Lord?” she asks with gritted teeth.

He smirks wickedly. “Myself, naturally.”

Viserra feigns exaggerated surprise, although in truth she is surprised. “I apologize, my Lord, it was only you said a man commanded them, so I did not think it would be you.” The smirk falls off his face.

“If you are displeased with that option, then you may seek redress from my grandsire,” he half growls.

Viserra debates this. On one hand, she did not wish to give Lord Theomore the satisfaction of approaching him and making a request such as this; he might take it as a coquettish overture, rejoice at the sight of Viserra lowering herself to ask something of him like a pox-ridden dog begged for scraps. But on the other hand, the serpent in her stomach writhed and spit poison every time Desmond gave her some small slight such as this, as if _he_ , a minor lordling in the untamed barren North, was superior to _her_ , a princess of the Valyrian blood. From a table across the hall, the girls Viserra had invited upon this trip, all pretty despite sporting hair the color of mud and eyes mostly the same, waved at her. She commands herself to grin and turns back to her companions.

“Indeed, my Lord, I believe I shall,” she says brightly, and swishes her skirts as she walks to Lord Theomore.

He stands as he should when he sees her approaching, and as she suspected he would, he appears far too pleased to be approached by her.

“My Lord,” she asks sweetly, giving a half-curtsy, “I and some ladies intend to take to your city streets this day, for browsing the wares and enjoying the weather. I have spoken to young Lord Desmond regarding my escort, but he has informed me that as of yet I have none assigned. Surely this is merely an oversight, Lord Theomore? I believe I should retain a small guard of two or three good men, so that I need not bother you when I make my way outside this Keep.” 

Two or three men, who could replace her mother’s monkeys whom she would banish from her sight as soon as she was able.

“Aye, aye,” the old man blusters, and Viserra sends a triumphant glare Desmond’s way. “You are quite right, princess, you must forgive our mistake! Indeed, I have a guard most suited to you and your station.”

“That pleases me well,” she demures. She even takes his arm when he offers it, so smug is she in her quick victory. 

“Desmond!” he summons, and when the lad comes he claps a meaty hand on his shoulder. “The Princess Viserra requires a guard. There is only one worthy of her, I would say!”

“Grandfather, I—,” Desmond pales and protests, but Theomore turns to Viserra once more.

“My heir Desmond will accompany you whenever you leave New Castle’s grounds, of course! None know White Harbor as he does. Rest assured, you are in the most capable hands possible. Desmond was knighted only a few moons ago, at ten and six! Most southron green boys could not even say that much, I wager.”

 _Of fucking course,_ Viserra thinks and regrets not throwing herself overboard on her journey here.

She thanks her imminent husband-to-be kindly, and silently curses all of House Manderly.

* * *

Getting to White Harbor’s markets turns out to be more trouble than it could possibly be worth. The ladies she invited assumed they would ride down, and Viserra instead suggests they walk, for the thought of riding… she still was not ready. 

Desmond agrees, which Viserra is briefly grateful for, until he follows it up with _aye, the princess was in a horse racing accident before she arrived, poor dear. We would not want to repeat that tragedy, would we, ladies? I am training a special horse for her Grace here, one even the most unaccomplished rider can command. Shame she is not broken yet._ He even grins at them in a manner that passes for charming, and they all titter and swoon like the maiden simpletons they are.

Needless to say, she will not grant them another invitation.

The wheelhouse is brought for them instead, and poor Delena is forced to entertain their guests the entire trip down one hill and up another, for Viserra stubbornly stares out the window the entire time. 

When they step out, it is as she suspected. Fishfoot Yard is entirely disappointing. They make a few rounds of popular streets, looking upon all the carts of interesting objects brought out for the influx of guests eager to see a royal wedding. They will only be disappointed.

She peers down an alley where a half naked woman leans out from a window, waving a handkerchief at a man. Ah, so here is the brothel, of course.

“Princess, there is a mummer’s show of your royal family!” one of the girls giggles eagerly.

“All these traveling singers are here for you, your Grace,” another adds, as if Viserra should be honored. In King’s Landing, travelling singers came and went as fleas from a stray cat. Here, they were some grand event.

She allows herself to be led to the tent of roughspun cloth where the mummers show is going, awful wigs of yellow donned on a troupe of short, stout men and even shorter, stouter women. They were playing a show of Queen Alysanne’s visit North and the tourney thrown in her honor, making a ridiculous mockery of jousting which Viserra found quite amusing. Jousting was a ridiculous sport.

Barely concealed illusions such as “Empress Alianne” or “Ser Theodore” were used in the place of true names, so when Ser Theodore seized the Empress and raunchily kissed her, it is not precisely slanderous. Nonetheless it leaves a bad taste in Viserra’s mouth, and she excuses herself from her companions for some fresh air, rather than waiting for her father’s shade to come on the stage. She assures the girls that she will only be a moment, imploring them to stay.

When she steps out, harsh sunlight uncomfortable, she sees the trident-wielding guards milling around the square, chatting with commons and vendors. It is not such a horrible sight, she shocks herself by thinking, the children running around and the calming sea green of the flags fluttering from the roofs of buildings. 

For a moment, Princess Viserra simply catalogs White Harbor, relishing in a single moment spent free of pretenses.

“Entertainment not to your liking, princess?” a sarcastic voice interrupts her reverie, and the irritation bubbles back to the surface. The serpent within her bares its fangs.

When she turns to glare at Desmond, he is leaning against a cart piled high with all sorts of nuts and dried fruits. The girl on the other side of the cart is flushed red, likely from some tawdry flirting they were engaging in, and she has the good sense to quickly make herself scarce.

The look in Desmond’s eyes is one of challenge, and Viserra finds herself rising to it unbidden.

“Has anyone ever told you that you are difficult to get along with?” she asks, sweetly smiling.

“Why, have you been trying to get along with me?” he shoots back, bemused. 

Viserra chuckles wryly, shaking the hood off of her so that her long, beautiful braid is on display, along with her cheeks made pink from the cold. His eyes narrow as if he knows what she is doing. _He thinks I am seducing him, like every other maiden in this hellhole likely attempts to do._

“Perchance we might speak freely, Lord Desmond.”

His gaze is suspicious. “Aye, Princess Viserra.” Aye, it was always always aye with these strange people.

“What is it about women that intimidates you so?” _Strike first._

He splutters, indignant. “Women? Why should women intimidate me?”

“Ah, so it is only me then.” _Strike true._

He stands to his full height, scowling. “Why would _you_ intimidate me? You are nothing but a vain girl in silk and jewels, whose high birth has coddled you from reality.”

“Indeed!” she claps and laughs, “and yet, here I am, and you are clearly obsessed with me. None would blame you, of course, for a Targaryen Princess is a marked improvement on the women you have loitering around.”

Brown hair, brown eyes, brown… teeth. Ridiculous. Delena carried the Fossoway coloring of amber hair and honey golden eyes, and in King’s Landing she was not seen as a great beauty, but here the girl may as well have been a Lyseni princess.

“I am now beyond convinced that you do not belong here,” he growls, taking a step towards her.

She closes the distance, meeting the blue fury of his gaze with her own. “On that much we both agree, but while I am here, you will show me the respect I am due. I am your princess and I may soon be your Lady, Lord Desmond. Do not forget that.”

“But that is what I have done,” he mockingly replies, “shown you the respect that you _deserve._ ”

“Try harder, darling,” she simpers, delighting in the rage it unleashes in him.

“The day you leave here will be the happiest of my life,” he promises, deadly serious, and she coos sympathetically.

“Hopefully not for a long while, for if Lord Theomore is any indication you must become much uglier before you are suited to rule this glorified fishery.” _Strike hard._

He takes the bait, incensed. “My Grandfather is a renowned warrior! In his youth, women waged battles to marry him, wise and good as he still is! Your own mother found him a man among men, enough to saddle him with _you._ ”

 _Was she the only one who saw Theomore Manderly as he truly was? It was rapidly appearing more and more likely._

“My dear mother sent me here as a _punishment_ , not a reward.” she seethes

“Well I can certainly see why!” he volleys back, and they might have gone on, but the crowd begins to stumble out of the mummer's tent, still howling with laughter. Desmond takes a step back, breathing harshly and running a frustrated hand through his hair. 

His shaggy hair is dark, she realizes. Not like the other Manderly’s she had met, his was more of a roasted chestnut than a sandy crown. Perhaps he took after his mother. Or perhaps his father took after his grandmother, who was to say. Such differences were a natural result of muddying the bloodline.

“Your Grace,” the quietest of all the girls, Faline, Viserra believed her name was, approaches her and interrupts softly. 

“Yes, sweet one?” Viserra responds, turning her back to Desmond intentionally.

The girl blushes. Her eyes were grey, not brown as they seemed at first, and they were quite interesting now that Viserra looks close. Not pretty, but interesting.

“Remind me your name again, dear,” Viserra implores, and the girl bites her lip.

“Faline Snow, my princess. I only wished to tell you that some of the Pentoshi traders have arrived and they have fine wares on display. The others are going there.”

“Faline Snow,” Viserra sings, taking her hand and walking in the direction of Delena, “tell me more of yourself, if you would indulge me.”

“I am ten and three, your Grace. My father is the Karstark of Karhold, my mother a member of the Manderly household. I am so honored to be with you now, of course.” Viserra smiles indulgently. A little bastard girl, that was certainly different, and a noble bastard as well. 

It was always the quiet ones she enjoyed. 

The Pentoshis do indeed have fine wares, and they all ogle and test the various products while the traders preen and prance around. After an hour, Viserra has had her fill of flattery—the incessant glare on her back does not help either.

“The perfumes and the cashmere cloth, and no more!” she decides by the end, only to look over at her companions and change her mind, “yes, and an electrum-dipped shell for each of us. As a keepsake, for our day spent together.”

She is a generous princess when she wishes, and she is in the mood to be.

The sea-tanned trader nods happily, wrapping up her items with glee. “Of course, my most precious feather,” he flatters her in Bastard Valyrian, where such affections are often spoken to one’s beloved. No one understood but them, of course, but that is perfectly fine by her.

“And now, my feather, there is only the matter of payment,” the man smarms, and Viserra smarts.

She remains in their native tongue when she says, “seller, you speak to a Targaryen princess.” Perhaps he did not realize.

“Oh yes, the most beautiful of all Targaryen princesses, and all the way in Pentos they sing of you,” he croons, and her companions begin to look befuddled at this strange interaction. “But of course…”

“But of course he is a thieving Pentoshi bastard and does not care for Westerosi titles,” a harsh Northern accent interrupts them, the delicate Valyrian pronunciation lost on the speaker. 

“Bring the goods to the merchant’s gate of the castle, and you will receive half the payment you tried to get from her. That’s more than fair price.” _Of course he was extorting me. I knew that, it was half the fun._

The merchant bows his head, and Viserra turns to Desmond, who studiously avoids her gaze. His jaw is still tight with rage, which, honestly. Men were such children.

“You speak?” she asks quietly, in Valyrian. His nostrils flare, and he responds in the Common Tongue. “Merchants from all the Free Cities come to trade within our gates. I speak enough.”

“How interesting,” she immaturely replies in Valyrian, merely to annoy him.

Of course, it works, and he is still red in the face when they return to the castle, stalking away in a huff. Princess Viserra considers that a victory.

* * *

The morning of her wedding, Princess Viserra wakes panting from a nightmare so real, it felt so real, how could it be—she needed to, she needed to get up she knew but when a tear rolled down her face, it was a lost cause, and she began _sobbing, wailing_ , her heart beating so fast her ribcage felt too tight, and her legs ached and tears were still streaming down her face, burning her skin with how hot they were, everything burned and ached ad _hurt_ it all hurt _too much_ , she couldn’t, she could not—

It takes ages, but the pains stop slowly, slow as a snail, like the ones Vaegon had poured salt on with a strange glint in his eye, the same glint Saera had many a time, the look Daella had feared so mightily from what little Viserra could even remember of her sister, _dead like the others, like Alyssa and the two babes, Daenerys who I never met but haunts us all, the way she still dances in mother’s eyes,_ Viserra wants to hold on but one by one they go away; Saera fades away and her chest loosens, allowing her to gulp air. Vaegon goes and her throat opens, Alyssa disappears while laughing and Viserra's shoulders droop, Mother is still reaching out to touch Viserra when she goes, but she takes away the tears and shivers, Daenerys and the babes chase each other away so she can finally close her eyes once more—

Baelon and Aemon leave last, with the shooting pain in her leg and knee. Father she had no hope of getting rid out, that wound was too deep, Viserra could not get him out no matter how much she spewed, he stubbornly remained inside her, battling the serpent and keeping it cowed while it only grew more brazen in it’s demand for release.

It is ages later when she realizes there are arms around her, and perhaps they had been this whole time. Someone is singing her a song.

She blinks her eyes back open, for as swollen as they feel, and finds little Faline Snow in her bed with her, angelic voice serenading Viserra with a tune that she has never heard before. _Brave young Danny Flint_ , Viserra stores for later. She enjoys the sound of it. 

Delena’s arms are secure around her and Viserra grasps them.

“I had a nightmare,” she croaks, not sounding very royal at all.

“Aye, your Grace, a terrible thing,” Faline stops singing and kisses Viserra’s eyelids. “Do you feel better? My mam does that for me when I have a nightmare, and I feel better.”

“Somewhat,” Viserra decides upon, stroking the girl’s hair. It was so soft…

“Princess, we must rise,” Delena tone is regretful, and only then does Viserra truly return to the plane of reality. Her soaked bed and ruined nightgown register for the first time that day.

This day. Her wedding day.

She moves through the morning as if in a daze, dressing and grooming until the sun is at its peak in the sky. Her hair is twisted into some intricate Northern braid that felt foreign, bracelets and anklets and necklaces placed upon, but no rings, for her hands were still shaking so much she could not hope to don them.

“May I have wine?” she asks, and is granted her wish, inhaling the entire glass in a moment. It doesn’t help at all.

Lord Theomore’s daughters enter her chambers near the end of all the rituals, when her eyelids have been painted gold and the black kohl placed on top, to accentuate her beauty. Her lips are painted red as well, and rouge upon her cheeks, although her pale complexion from the terrors of the previous night has not completely gone away. 

“Bride’s nerves,” the Northern maidens laughs heartily, and Viserra does not correct them.

 _The dragon does not cower, the dragon does not fear, the dragon does not weep._ She repeats it over and over but never quite believes it, although she manages to gracefully accept words of love and acceptance from her… from Theomore’s daughters. 

Delena ties her maiden’s cloak around her shoulders. Viserra places her circlet upon herself at the end, the single ruby in it at the forefront.

The wheelhouse takes her to the Sept of the Snows when Viserra always thought she would ride, proud and free, to her wedding. She tells Delena as much, who faithfully holds her hand.

“Just as well, princess,” she comforts her. _Because you might have ridden away,_ goes unsaid.

The streets are lined with the people of White Harbor and beyond, helmets and tridents visible where guards were posted every so often. They are all laughing and cheering, rejoicing in the generosity of their Lord who has deigned to share the celebrations of his fifth special day them once again.

They are celebrating, but she cannot. She can’t.

Nobody gives her hand away but herself, and that stings in a manner Viserra did not think it would. It stings more than seeing Lord Theomore, decked in his finest clothing, so utterly content to see her. She did not want him. She did not. 

She takes Theomore’s hands and bows when the Septon commands her, as if he controls her with dark magic.

“Father, Smith, Warrior, Mother, Maiden, Crone, Stranger,” they say in unison, Viserra calling upon the Gods for the first time in moons. She doubt they will answer, or even listen. 

“I am hers and she is mine. From this day until the end of my days,” _he_ speaks, eyes wet like a maiden. Perhaps he loves me, Viserra thought, and could hardly contain her shiver.

“I am his and he is mine. From this day until the end of my days,” she seals her own fate, whispering the words miserably. 

She rises, as does Lord Theomore with some difficulty, knees creaking. It is Lord Desmond who assists him, and hands him a rich cloth. Viserra does not raise her head to look him or her husband in the eye, merely turns and kneels when she is supposed to. 

“You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection,” the septon drones, and Viserra looks to the crowd. It was a veritable sea of faces, some of them richly decorated, some of them hard as stone. She did not recognize a single one.

Her Targaryen cloak slips away like rich, elegant silk did from a ream. The Manderly cloak was made of sealskin and lined with otter fur, the merman embroidered on it by Jessamyn and Mara themselves apparently, for his wife two wives ago.

She rises Viserra Manderly, the Lady of White Harbor, and Lord Theomore kisses her with all the tenderness in the world. 

It feels as if a layer of oil had been slicked over her lips. She wipes it away when the sept erupts in cheers, three times she attempts, but the feeling remains, like ink spilled onto one’s fingers. When Lord Theomore takes her hand, both of them gloveless, naked hands embracing for the first time, the oily feel spreads there as well. 

A panic rises within her, but she pushes it down, down into the mouth of the serpent, who swallows it and grows larger for it’s meal.

* * *

The wedding feast is held in Merman’s Court, an abominable room crafted of wood and nets, with murals of marine life spread all over. In one corner, two octopi copulate, a feature that the drunk guests seem to take great glee in. 

If Viserra had drowned herself at sea on her way here, her surroundings would be exactly the same as they are now in Merman’s Court, she notes drily.

Her husband is not by her side, although he promised to be back soon when he left. 

“Princess, do you think that may be enough?” Delena whispers into her ear, as Viserra pours another cup of wine. She has hardly eaten as well, so it is indeed enough, but Viserra pointedly ignores her. 

Lord Theomore bustles back into view, grin so large it could catch a bird in it. Behind him, several servants carry a variety of objects, and Viserra’s heart sinks. _Gifts for me, as if there has not been enough mummery already this day._

She schools her face into one of charming delight. She drank more the night she was in Baelon’s chambers, finishing an entire flagon by herself. It was a mistake then, but it is the correct choice now.

“Favored guests! Drunkards, lushes, and sweet maidens alike!” Theomore roars, and the Hall rises in greeting. “You have eaten my food and drank my wine, now you will listen to my words!” Everyone laughs, and Viserra makes her best effort to join. It is a slightly watery affair.

“Years ago, when Good Queen Alysanne graced my halls, many of you were with me! She was a model woman, a model Queen, and we showered all the honors known to us upon her, gestures of our undying loyalty to House Targaryen of the Iron Throne!”

The knights who travelled with Viserra hoot and stomp their feet when their liege lords are named.

“Well, let it not be said that I bestowed any gift upon the mother that I did not the daughter, for she is now my beloved, the only Princess in the North!” The cheers for her were more muted, but she did not care. She only wished for this day to be done.

Seven gifts are presented to her, lengths of rare fabric and bounds books, a magnificent necklace, a fine vanity table. The sixth gift is covered in a cloth, and when the servant removes the covering, there is a bird within. A raven, black as night and beautiful as sin.

“A raven trained for King’s Landing, my princess, that you may write to your mother of your life,” Theomore laughs joyously, and Viserra thanks him well for the gift.

Of course he is not done, although he is red in the face with exertion. “The seventh gift will be granted upon you with some delay, when the tourney to celebrate our union is completed. For the rest of you lot, drink and be merry! For this is a blessed day!”

Theomore pulls Viserra close to him, using his hands to cup her face. The oily feeling returns with a vengeance, but she does not dare move away. “Are your gifts to your liking, sweet princess?”

“Yes, very much so, my Lord,” she replies dutifully, casting her eyes down as if she was pious. He only chuckles again, and kisses her temple. 

“Good, good. I will endeavor to make you happy. Would you like to dance, princess?”

“Yes, my Lord,” she answers weakly, for what choice did she have left? 

He frowns when he takes a step, his knee cracking. “Ah, forgive my old bones. Never mind that, if dancing is your wish then dancing you shall have!”

She is about to protest, grateful for the escape, but he gestures somewhere behind her, and before she can say anything coherent, Desmond is by their side. His face is flush from drink as well, a smile on his face from the evening’s cavorting. “Dance with one another, for you two are both young, as is the night! I will sit for a time, and enjoy the delicious food wasted on our terrible guests, who I love well.”

“Of course, grandfather,” Desmons bows dutifully, and folds Viserra into his arms without question, whisking her to the floor of dancing couples.

“Your hands are cold,” she complains, and he shrugs.

“It is winter and I am of the North, princess. Or shall I call you grandmother?” He is in high spirits, she can see that much, for his ever-present scowl has been packed away. Miracles never cease, she supposes.

When he is not being a miserable git, he is not half bad of a dancer, Viserra observes.

“Do you favor your mother?” she blurts out, after scrutinizing his face for a moment.

“What?” he questions, confused, “aye, I do. How would you know?”

She doesn’t answer, lets him control their dancing, their spins and twirls. “I look like my father, perhaps you know this already. Perhaps you met my mother when she was in the North.”

“I was not even born then, princess,” he scoffs, but there is no heat in it.

He spins her then, dropping her into a quick hold and then returning her to the upright position. Her mind was not ready for such movement, and she woozily misses a step. He notices, even though she recovers quickly, and makes to speak. “You will correct me if I am wrong, of course.”

“Of course I will.”

“I do believe you are quite drunk.”

She gasps. “Myself? Drunk? Not at all. Why would you say that?”

He seems amused. “I did not think so at first, for you are very steady and graceful on your feet for a drunk girl. But you are saying strange things and when I spun you, you looked as if you may be sick. Am I wrong, your Grace?”

“Perhaps I am a bit,” she confesses, and then chuckles to herself. She catches her reaction, but she clearly gave the game away. He looks upon her as if he is a cat about to pounce on a fat pigeon.

“Aye, you are. Why is that, princess? Playing the shy maiden, I suppose?” The smile falls from her face. His does as well, even though it was him who said it, and the chill of their normal interactions settles back in. 

“You are truly a cock, you know,” she hisses. Unfortunately the grip he has on her back is the only support keeping her standing, the room going dizzy around them, else she would rip herself away from him. “I am no fearful maiden, Lord Desmond. I am the blood of the dragon, of the Conqueror himself.”

“So you are,” he states without feeling.

“I am brave,” she insists, and even to her addled mind she knows she sounds anything but. She cannot bring herself to stop, though, but the song is finally ending, and Desmond brings them to a halt.

“I am like Brave Danny Flint,” she murmurs dreamily, as he kisses her hand dutifully. He looks up when she says that, a deep furrow in his brow.

“It is from a song. Faline Snow sang it to me, although I did not hear the words,” she elaborates. Perhaps it is an uncommon song, or perhaps he did not hear her correctly.

“No, you are not like—,” Desmond begins to correct her, but they are interrupted by the rich laughter of a loud man clambering atop a chair and demanding attention. Some Northern Lord who Viserra cannot identify with her vision still spinning as it is.

“A wedding without a bedding may as well be a funeral!” he declares, and Viserra’s heart sinks as she looks about in panic, looking for Delena, anyone. _These disgusting men will touch me everywhere,_ she thinks with rising alarm, and chants of “bed! bed! bed!” become deafening in the hall.

The eyes are on her first, greedy and searching.

A boy, certainly he is younger than her, is the first to touch her, and then there are a hundred more grasping hands as she tries to breathe through it all—the sound of the ripping of one of her sleeves shakes her to the core, and she struggles fruitlessly against their unavoidable skin on hers, uncovering hers.

She is turned this way and that as she is carried from the hall while being stripped, raucous laughter around her as if she was some common whore, and the last thing she sees before being hoisted in the air is Lord Desmond standing in the same place she left him, Delena by his side with worry written on her face.

They march her through the corridor, rough on her waist, her pearl necklace breaking and cascading onto the floor. The slip is finally torn, but the men cannot see her scar from where they are below her, drunk and careless with her as no one has ever been before.

The trip to her husband’s chambers is blessedly short, and when she is finally set down some man squeezes her breasts lewdly before the door shuts behind her.

There isn’t a shred of clothing left on her, and her husband is the same, seated on the edge of the bed. He doesn’t move, merely looks upon her wistfully. As if she is a constellation fallen from the heavens to grace his bed.

 _No,_ she wants to beg, _your little girl is so sorry, Mama and Papa, she was vain and proud, but she will listen to you now if you do not make her do this thing. Mother, Maiden, Crone, I will be as pious as Maegelle if you save me now._

Of course, no one was listening. It was only her and her oaf of a husband.

She distantly wishes she had given her maidenhead away before this—to Leon, perhaps, he always loved her. No, that was wrong. It was Baelon she wanted to give it to; it had always, always been him.

Think of Baelon, she tells herself frantically, seeking drunken absolution as she is laid down on the soft, plush sheets. She recalls his face, strong and clever, robust and loving. She thinks of his full lips that she never had the chance to kiss, because Alyssa kept all his kisses to herself even after she was gone. His muscles and the way they moved in the practice yard. His hand around her shoulder, an affection he rarely bestowed on her.

Think of Baelon, she tells herself as she shuts her eyes.

* * *

When she wakes in the darkness of night, the serpent in her womb is coiled so tight it forces her to curl her prone body into the fetal position for comfort.

The sickening sensation of spilled oil spreads within her, and the viper rages at what it deems unwanted.

* * *

The tourney began the following day.

It was snowing, but not heavily, and it seemed in the North that qualified as a beautiful day. They were blessed to see it, if Viserra heard correctly.

Many of the high ladies of the North are present for the festivities, and Viserra takes a turn with them around the castle wall, watching the seals climb aptly-named Seal Rock for some time. Their rhythmic motions were hypnotizing to the princess, and helped to phase from her mind the gossiping women surrounding her.

At the beginning, some of the women thought it appropriate to titter and question Viserra about her bedding the night before. Viserra quickly disabused them of that familiarity.

She does not wish to think of it, to remember the few details that she could, given her heavy inebriation. He was very gentle, Viserra knew that much, but that changed nothing. 

Instead, she allows Delena and little Faline to flank her when she approaches the tourney grounds, curtsying slightly to her husband and seating herself next to him.

“How do you fare, my princess?” her new husband whispers conspiratorially to her. She winces internally.

“I am well, my Lord.” She breathes a sigh of relief when he removes his supposedly comforting hand from her back, and the oily sensation is barely present. Then again, her stomach is rolling and her head pounding, so likely her body simply did not have the ability to produce another sensation.

Lord Theomore signals the herald to announce the beginning of the tourney, and the first challengers rode onto the snow-covered field. They were two young and plump squires, seated atop ponies, and their match was boring. Nonetheless, Viserra claps when appropriate, and sends thanks to her ancestors when the last of the pudgy children is done playing at knighthood for the day.

“In the North, we do not know much of jousting,” Faline tells her as they ready themselves for the night’s feast, which Viserra finds herself surprised by.

“Why is that?”

The girl shrugs. “There are not many knights in the North. Men of honor are abound, but knighthood is a southron tradition, and so the sports of knights are also rarely indulged. There are more important things."

“I cannot disagree that tourneys are a waste of time, but are Lords Theomore and Desmond not knighted?” Viserra wonders, suddenly curious.

Faline flounders, but Delena responds. “That would be the Manderly’s southron roots, my princess. When they were expelled from their home in the Riverlands a thousand years ago, they preserved their traditions even after the Starks of the North granted them this land and stewardship of the adjoining prison. They are one of the few Northern houses that knight their men, I would think.”

Viserra hums, allowing a locket at the end of a fine silken thread to be fixed around her throat. “What have I done to warrant such intelligent handmaidens,” she teases them both, even offering up a small smile.

Delena and Faline grin back, and Viserra thinks the compliment is the least she can do after the fright she gave them both on her wedding morning.

Viserra wonders if Theomore will claim her again this evening. A cramp develops in her abdomen, where the serpent weeps venom at the thought. _Surely it was too soon. Did old men not struggle to achieve arousal? She always heard so._

When she arrives, the hall rises in deference for her, and she makes her way to Lord Theomore’s side at his calling. Her husband takes time to speak to his vassals, something he requests Viserra accompany him for, and she finds herself finally putting faces to names. 

“Where is the Lord Stark of Winterfell?” she asks, when they have come near the end of the hall. Surely the North’s liege would not be seated so unfavorably.

“Lord Edric is not present, my dear,” Lord Theomore laughs kindly, “he cannot leave Winterfell when winter has just begun.”

“I see,” Viserra responds curtly. The Starks had once travelled a thousand miles to the tourney marking her father’s tenth year on the throne. For her, they would not even ride to the nearest city.

Her mother and father’s plan had worked: Viserra was forgotten, her title of princess and royal blood meaning nothing at all.

* * *

The next days of the tourney passed quickly, building up to when the true jousting began on the third day. Some wildling beast had won the melee handily, and Viserra excused herself to the mummers as often as was acceptable.

Lord Theomore had not come to her chambers or requested her in his since the first night, although each night Viserra waited with her breath held tightly in her chest, the serpent inhaling all the air in her body, to see if he would. She thought it unlikely he was displeased with her, but she did not care to know his reasons so long as she had a reprieve. 

On the third day, Desmond rode for the first time, and the memory of her dislike for him made that the most interesting day.

Unfortunately he had ridden well, and unhorsed his two opponents that day easily enough. The only other jousters Viserra had made any note of were a ridiculously tall Lord Raymund Bolton, who her husband did not speak of with any fondness, and some young minor lordling by the name of Woolfield. Raymund Bolton was a fierce rider, sometimes too fierce, while the Woolfield man was an amusing sight upon his mount—Viserra had never seen anyone grip a horse so hard between their thighs. 

The fourth day was the last of the sporting, the fifth being reserved for the closing feast and to allow for hours of farewells. 

The day commences as any other, and Viserra dutifully takes her seat on the tourney grounds when the time comes. Today, though, Lord Theomore looks upon with a frighteningly secretive glint in his eyes, and Viserra forces herself to react sweetly.

He stands then, and commands the attention of all those in the miniature stands surrounding them. “Guests! Before we open the final day of the tourney, might I remind you that this tourney is held to celebrate the marriage of myself to the Princess Viserra of House Targaryen!”

The crowds yell, and Viserra stands awkwardly, unsure of what to do.

Thankfully, he goes on. “Our King and Queen have given the North a precious gift, that of their loveliest daughter!” _The daughter they like the least._ “And now, I will bestow my final wedding gift upon my newly wedded wife, although it compares none to the one I have received.”

The Northmen like this speech well, and they yell out crude japes alluding to the gift being Viserra’s maiden’s gift, of course, and what they would not give to have had it. Disgusting animals.

What she would give to have had a choice in who she gave her maidenhead and hand to, she thinks angrily, but does not allow it to show on her face. Instead, she looks around expectantly, unsure where this gift from her husband is, and it is not until young Desmond rides up to the box on a pale palfrey with a mane the color of spun gold does Viserra realize that this is her gift.

A horse.

_A horse._

“She is rendered speechless!” Theomore boasts, and he is absolutely correct. She cannot even move or react for how surprised she is.

Desmond makes an impatient noise from where he still stands holding the reins. “Will you not mount her, princess? She is a soft girl, broken hard for you. We know of your difficulty with these animals and made arrangements to ensure your safety.”

It is an insult, naturally, but Viserra is too frozen to say anything back. At Theomore’s gentle prodding however, she recalls her graces, and thanks her husband.

Every eye on the field is upon her, so she compels herself forward. _The dragon does not cower, the dragon does not fear, the dragon does not weep._ Taking the reigns from Desmond, she pets the horse, who is indeed quite beautiful now that Viserra looks closely. Viserra never chose animals for their beauty before, actually the puppies and kittens of her youth were often the ugliest creatures, their missing eyes or club feet wrenching at Viserra’s heart. 

Her last horse was slaughtered for her own foolishness. Not this one, Viserra promises herself, this one I will care for and respect as she deserves. 

It is past time she returns to the saddle, and she chastises herself for merely standing around like a simpleton. When she places a foot in the stirrup and hoists herself up to ride side saddle, the serpent within her has crawled to her throat, hisses and cracking it’s tail, but still she loops around the field once just to show that she can. 

The jousting is most welcome after that, and Viserra nearly cheers when Desmond is knocked off his horse. Alas, that would not be appropriate.

The final joust is between Woolfield and Bolton, and when they ride, the Bolton in blackened armor on a red steed, the former in patched and burnished steel upon a spotted grey beast, they clash so hard that sturdy Delena falls from her chair.

They break five lances against each other, and the Bolton rider is nearly fuming steam from his ears, that much is clear when he throws his broken lance at his squire so hard the boy collapses onto the dirt.

The sixth lance feels different though, and when the men are near to clash, the lance seems to be aimed straight for the neck of Lord Woolfield. Viserra grips her chair hard in fright, but at the final moment, Lord Woolfield shifts to avoid the danger and takes the lance hard on his shoulder, lifting from his saddle and falling heavy onto the ground.

Viserra believes she hears a rib crack. _I cracked three when I fell. I could hardly sit up. They healed well, all the maester’s said so._ Even still it was a pain she would not wish on anyone, and she grimaces in sympathy. The next moment, a cheer goes up loudly, and Lord Woolfield struggles to his feet as Raymund Bolton lends him a hand.

She shuts her eyes to stem the well of anxiety pooling inside her. It was too much. That old familiar spark of agony runs up the scar of her leg, and she bites her bottom lip to tamp it down. Preoccupied, she does not realize that Raymund Bolton is riding up to her until the hooves of his horse are directly in front of her, and when she sits straight to meet the victor's eyes, she finds them to be the most unsettling pale grey she has ever seen. Indeed, they are as pale as her new horse, almost invisible in his wax, sweaty skin.

“Your Grace,” he greets, his voice deep.

“Felicitations, my lord,” she inclines her head, her mane of unbound hair falling forward. He leers at her, and it strikes Viserra as cruel. 

He places a flower crown of tightly wrapped snowdrops and winter hollies in her hands, and she places it upon her brow gingerly, allowing Lord Bolton to kiss her hand.

“The Queen of Love and Beauty,” he murmurs, making cold eye contact one last time. 

“You are a most gracious man,” she curtsies. Her hand crushes itself into a fist, so strongly did she despise the feeling of him touching her, kissing her as he just did. She _hated_ it. Her emotions remain in massive upheaval.

When she can finally excuse herself, she makes for her chambers, only maintaining dignity until she is comes to a deserted hall, at which point she breaks into a sprint, leaving Delena to yell after her and pick up her own skirts to follow her quickly. Viserra dashes through the hallways, leaning heavily on her uninjured leg to take her, for the scarred one was failing her. It felt wet as well, and Viserra collapses against her chambers door when she feels a viscous liquid dripping down her calf.

“Princess,” Delena finally reaches her, flushed and panting.

“I’m bleeding,” Viserra implores her from below, “my leg, I tore it, it bleeds!”

Delena goes white. “Princess, that cannot be—”

“It is! I can feel it all over me, I must have a maester, I _bleed._ ” She rustles with her gown, pulling up her skirts and her underskirts and her shaping wear, yanking at them in righteous panic. Delena’s frantic fingers join her, and her stockings are torn down her legs quickly exposed to see the devastation of her wound—

They both look down.

Delena raises her wide-eyed gaze to Viserra’s face. 

“I don’t understand,” Viserra murmurs faintly.

There is nothing there. Only the scar, pink and wrathful, not a drop of blood to be seen. 

“I felt it,” she implores Delena to believe her, and the ever-placid Fossoway girl looks somewhat unruffled for one of the first times in Viserra’s memory.

“I know, princess,” she ultimately responds, and cradles Viserra’s face to her collar. “I know you did.”

* * *

The closing feast is modest compared to the others, the meat mostly comprising of various ducks; duck is set on beds of hearty winter vegetables, duck in a saffron sauce, duck in a soup, even caramelized duck within a pie. All of this the princess only picks at, unable to enjoy the rich fattiness to its full extent. 

She dances an eerily silent dance with Lord Bolton, an assiduously tense one with Desmond at the behest of Lady Jessamyn, and even participates in a lively jig with the overjoyed Lord Edmund. None of it makes her feel any better, but on the positive side, she is so emotionally exhausted from the tempest of the past few days that she cannot even find it within herself to be upset by so many foreign touches. They slide from her as if discarded bathwater.

Her husband comes to dance with her last, and proves to be a poor dancer.

“I apologize that this is our first dance, princess,” Theomore says sincerely, as if she cares at all. She would have gone a thousand years before dancing with him if she had any choice.

“There is no need to say so, my Lord,” she assures him.

“Aye, aye. You are very gracious, young wife,” he hums. That much she would not assure him on, however. The dance is nearly over when he pulls her close, a sheepish pull at one edge of his mouth. “I have been inattentive to you the past few days, and I regret that it was so. Keeping fifty guests fed and pleased is no simple feat.”

She finds it within her to laugh sympathetically with him. “It is no issue, my Lord, I do not mind.”

He chuckles again. “I will thank you for your understanding. But never mind that now. I will come to you tonight, as a husband ought. You will never have cause to complain that I do not take my cares with you, my princess.”

Her heart sinks. But she expected this days ago, and it is nearly preferable to not sit in fear any longer. She nods to accept his proposition—what else was there for her to do? 

After she kisses Faline’s cheek to say goodnight and dismiss her services for evening, she makes her way to her rooms to sit in silence, gathering her strength and peace of mind. She takes a cup of wine, but only has time for the one before her husband knocks lightly at the door, entering when she grants him permission. What else was there for her to do?

This time, she does not think of Baelon. This time, she merely lets go, and allows the Gods to make of her what they will.

What else was there for her to do?

* * *

Queen Alysanne’s first letter arrives on a fine day. Viserra had taken her horse, newly named ‘Beauty,’ on a short ride around the gardens, cracking the frozen mist on the grounds with her powerful strides. It still did not feel quite comfortable, but small efforts were important. 

She will have to have fur-lined leathers commissioned soon, because her former clothes were not a worthy defense against the wintry Northern cold.

The castle maester handed her the thick scroll when she entered the castle, and Viserra carefully brought it to her chambers that evening, where Delena and Faline were sitting with her.

Once the small talk has ended, and after a period of mutual contemplation, Faline breaks the silence. “Will you read your letter now?”

Viserra laughs lightly, picking up the stack of papers and turning it over in her hands.

Then she threw them in the fire, watching the edges blacken hastily before the entirety of it was consumed. Only when the missive was nothing but ash did she look back at her companions, and found two sets of dumbfounded eyes were upon her.

She shrugs. “I will periodically write to her that I am well and healthy, as my brother archmaester Vaegon does from time to time. But we have never been close, and I no longer have any desire to become so. You two will be family enough for me, now.”

Faline squeals and hugs Viserra, overjoyed at the prospect. She tells Viserra that she always wanted a sibling, that she will be the most loving little sister to her, and Viserra assures her that she already is. It isn't a lie.

Delena only sips her mulled cider, face betraying nothing beyond a pleased twinkle in her eyes.


	3. a handmaiden's tale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being Princess Viserra's handmaiden and confidant gives one Lady Delena Fossoway a certain amount of...perspective into the reluctant lady of White Harbor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first few chapters were too viserra heavy, so behold! the only non-viserra or baelon POV in this whole monster

**White Harbor, 89 AC**

**Lady Delena Fossoway**

The morning is barely born when Delena rouses from slumber. She has a habit of waking early, something instilled in her at a young age. Too young, probably, but the past was best left in it’s shallow grave. Instead of allowing herself additional rest beneath the moose furs that keep her warm at night, she clambers out of her bed, careful not to disturb young Faline who has taken to sleeping in her rooms on nights when Princess Viserra dismisses them.

The girl is like a barnacle, Delena thinks fondly, always attaching herself to someone or other. She supposes motherless girls can’t help themselves.

She had been like that once, sweet and susceptible to the smallest of kindnesses. Running through the apple orchards of Cider Hall and scraping her knees, only to have them kissed by her sweet mother, the promise of a tall glass of lemonade at dinner if she was a good girl. It was perfectly idyllic for a few years. Of course, she lost everything when her mother eloped with a lowly household knight she had fallen in love with, across the sea to Volantis if rumors could be believed. Life gave Delena very few kindnesses after that, and she is no longer the girl she once was.

She customarily bathes at night, and so now only rinses herself with the leftover basin water and dresses in a woollen outer gown Lady Mara gifted her with. A similarly borrowed shawl and broken-in leather boots completes her preparation for the day, and after rinsing her teeth with cleaning paste and a rough linen, she departs her chambers.

Viserra’s rooms are nearby hers, and she slips into them in order to check on her. Viserra always dismisses her when Lord Theomore comes to her, and even though Delena offers to return when Theomore has finished his business and departed for his own chambers, Viserra will not have it. It is understandable, but on mornings after she has been bed, Viserra always rises late, pale, and subdued. Delena likes to see her just in case. Nobody else but her is looking after the princess, after all, and that worries Delena.

Sneaking through the antechamber and into Viserra’s bedchamber, Delena notices the bed is empty, and groans internally.

Instead of in her lovely featherbed, Viserra lies in her nightgown on the rug in front of the hearth, her legs stretched out and exposed while sweat gathers on her fine brow. She sleeps, and looks a vision doing so, but forgoing her bed in exchange for the fireplace is something Viserra does when she cannot bear to sleep in the bed Lord Theomore fucked her in.

 _If I sleep in the bed, nightmares plague me,_ she told Delena.

 _But if you sleep on the rug, that means nothing is getting any better,_ Delena had not dared to respond.

As she makes her way to the kitchens to break her fast and gather her essentials, Delena allows Viserra to weigh heavy on her mind. Lord Theomore was not cruel to Viserra, that was a small relief, never leaving any bruises or using unkind words. Delena’s father had employed both with her mother, her stepmother who followed, and indeed Delena herself—that was someone Delena regarded as a vile husband. A vile man.

Nonetheless, Viserra despised Lord Theomore and his nighttime visits in particular. Another maid would have found solace in a kind and attentive husband, Delena acknowledges as much, but Viserra was not some girl. She is a princess, beautiful beyond imagination, and Queen Alysanne should have known better, in Delena’s opinion.

Mothers and fathers were always idiots with their daughters. They fooled themselves into thinking they were doing well, but in truth all they did was make a great mess. Delena had nothing but disdain for the King and Queen, no matter how successful they were as regents—in her time in King’s Landing, she had found them to be utterly stupid with Viserra. And so Delena saw a kindred spirit in the princess, and loved her dearly. They were each other’s sisters now, good bloody riddance to the useless families they had been born into.

Except Viserra was having a harder time letting go of her birth family that Delena ever had. _There was nothing to hold onto for me, all my father had for me were the smacks he wished to give my mother. My stepmother and step brothers scorned me as well._

“Good morrow,” Delena greets the kitchen wenches and matrons alike, some of whom grumble a response. Noises of chopping and boiling were rampant, steam and smoke clouding the air around them, and Delena wound her way to the counter where dark bread, rich butter, and salted salmon sat waiting for the early risers.

It was a comfort meal for her, the simple fare of her seafaring hosts. 

“Cook,” she calls when she is finished, dusting crumbs from her skirts, “may I have some of your whale’s wax, for the princess's use? It will not be much, I assure you.”

The muscular woman grunts and nods to a jar sitting on the shelf above her. “Aye, take that. When ‘er Grace is done, make sure t'give the rest to the Woolfield lad, he needs it for dressin’.”

“Dressing?” Delena repeats, not comprehending. She knows that Lord Robyn remains in New Castle, healing from his broken sternum, but she has not spoken to him directly...at all, now that she reflects on it. 

“The wound on ‘is chest, girl,” the cook huffs impatiently.

“Of course,” Delena replies, retrieving the jar and nodding thankfully, “I will take it to him, that is no issue. Should I return the jar?”

“If you ever want anything from my kitchen again, you best return it,” she says, affronted, and Delena assures her she will, ducking out of the kitchen.

Viserra should be awake by now, Delena thinks. She slips into her princess’s chambers and finds her just so, still lying facing the fire, hardly blinking. 

“Princess,” she sings, and Viserra only rustles around to acknowledge Delena’s greeting. 

“You know you should not sleep there,” Delena admonishes, and gets even less of a response to that. “But because I love you, I have retrieved you some wax anyways, so that you will not suffer unduly.”

She sets the jar on the rug and goes to her knees, unscrewing the lid and bringing Viserra’s unscarred leg into her lap first. A night spent in front of the fire leaves the princess's smooth skin bone dry and prone to rashes. Dipping her hand into the unassuming wax, Delena hums as she spreads and massages it into Viserra’s leg, chasing away the pink colouring. Any normal man would have welts from such proximity to the fire, but not a Targaryen princess, of course. Nonetheless, she is not immune to fire’s ill-effects.

“Thank you,” Viserra finally speaks, her voice rough and cracked. Another issue from the lack of moisture, Delena notes to herself. That, and exhaustion.

“Nonsense, I am your lady! It would be remiss of me not to do this for you.” Delens switches to the other leg, the scarred one, and Viserra flinches despite how gently Delena treats her. It did not hurt, but the pain lingered in her mind. Delena knew that sensation well, had known what it was from the moment Viserra collapsed in the false belief that her leg wound was bleeding once more.

Sometimes, at a random moment, Delena could still hear her father bellowing at her, feel her stepmother’s slaps, or even her half brother’s kicks at her shins. The memories came less and less as the years went, but they were still there.

“You are too good to me,” Viserra complains, sitting up and pulling her nightgown down. Her purple eyes were sad and far away, speaking to Delena but not truly seeing her.

Delena hesitates, but caresses Viserra’s elbow anyway. “Are you alright, Princess?”

Viserra grumbles, eyes still empty. “Of course, Delena. Of course.”

They sit for a time, backs against the bedframe and holding hands like little girls. When Viserra exhales hard, and stands up, Delena has a front row seat to see Viserra draw on the invisible cloak of Lady Manderly, of a Targaryen Princess. Her proud shoulders square, her bust rises, and the regal curve of her neck emerges. The deflated girl of the morning is gone, replaced by a pouting woman, and Delena stands as well, gathering the jar of wax once more and replacing her boots.

“I must take this to the Lord Woolfield and then return the jar to the kitchens, else I fear the cook will never forgive us.”

“We do not dare upset the cook of New Castle,” Viserra says, tone frighteningly neutral. “Request Lord Desmond’s accompaniment to White Harbor today when you have a moment, my Lady. We have an errand to complete.”

Delena nods, and makes her way out. She knows Viserra hates asking the young Lord for anything, that it is only one of a thousand cuts each day brings her. It chips away at her piece by piece and Delena is realistic enough to know that she alone cannot hold the princess together. The day Viserra rises and is no longer herself is one Delena fears, but at least today is not that day.

* * *

It takes searching to find Lord Woolfield’s chambers, and Delena finally succumbs to asking a passing hallman when nearly half an hour has passed.

She knocks on the door, and she guesses the muffled, “yes, come in, I am decent,” is her signal to enter.

“You are not entirely decent,” she declares flatly when she enters, and the speed at which Lord Robyn’s head whips to see her, and then scrunches into a wince at the sudden movement tells her he is at least a few weeks away from complete healing. His tunic lies open to the middle of his chest, a nicely built body on a sheepishly handsome man, and his mouth falls open in shock at the sight of her.

She introduces herself first. “Lady Delena Fossoway, I am here to deliver your whale ointment and then return the jar to the kitchen, if you please.”

He recovers enough to respond. “I have the pleasure of being Lord Robyn Woolfield of Ramsgate. I apologize profusely, my Lady, I thought one of the male servants would bring me - I would not have given you entry if I knew that a lady such as you awaited me…”

He smiles shyly at her, blushing embarrassed, and she returns the gesture to put him at ease.

“No need, I should have announced myself, my Lord. Nonetheless, I must impose on you further to apply the ointment quickly, so that I might return the jar.”

“Right, right, of course, my lady,” he stammers, taking the jar from her outstretched hands and setting it down. He hesitates then, looking at her curiously, and she nearly begins tapping her foot.

“I feel I must apologize again, Lady Delena. I will need to remove my shirt and bandages before I can apply the wax, you see.”

 _And this will take forever, at this rate._ Delena is exceptionally patient if she does say so herself, but there is much to do this day and she cannot afford to lose time to a man who will narrate his every step.

“Of course, my Lord. I will sit and look away, to preserve your modesty.”

“Please help yourself to a glass of apple cider while you wait, my lady Delena!”

“Just Delena is fine,” she says absentmindedly, touching the canteen that she assumes contains the apple juice. 

Cider Hall was named for apple cider. House Fossoway’s coat of arms was a red apple on a golden field, and it’s orchards were rife with color and heady scent. She has not seen Cider Hall since she was a girl of three and ten, and if the Gods are good she will never have to see it again. That doesn’t change the fact that she misses cider sometimes. She uncorks the bottle and scents the chilly bottle, welcoming the muted notes of sweetness. It had been made from hard apples, she could already tell. Cider was best when the apples were soft, nearly past ripeness, the sugars of the fruits suited to pressing.

An audible noise of pain distracts her from her musings, and she turns to see Lord Woolfield contorted painfully as he wrestles his shirt from his body. Criss-crossed bandages adorn his chest full of downy hair, which has gone red from effort.

“Do you require assistance?” she asks, keeping her voice level.

“I could not possible ask that of you, my lady Delena—”

“Just Delena,” she interrupts, crossing the room and grasping the offending garment, pulling it off easily. “I gather the male servant usually applies this substance for you, does he not?”

Lord Woolfield winces, abashed. “Aye, my lady Delena, I do apologize for my undress.”

“Do not,” she assures him, and pushes him to sit upon his bed. This is taking entirely too long, and Delena is not above making it go faster so that she can get to the rest of her tasks. She finds his skin is warmer than she expected it to be.

“My lady,” Lord Woolfield blusters, but she shakes her head.

“I see you are averse to calling me Delena, my Lord,” she chats to distract him as she examines the bandages and how best to remove them. 

“No, not averse, if that is your wish,” he says, and his stomach tightens when she delicately takes an edge of the wrap to begin unfurling. “I must confess I am...unused to being half undressed around such a beautiful woman.”

Delena stops her gentle tugging and looks at him with a hint of surprise. His face is red, his boyish smile embarrassed. 

“How old are you, my Lord?” she questions.

“One and twenty, my lady De—I apologize. Delena. I do not wish to make you uncomfortable.”

She snickers softly, and returns to her task. She expected him to be younger given how nervous he seems around her, but she supposes men are different in the North. “You do not make me uncomfortable, my Lord.” The swollen chest reveals itself, as the bandages slowly fall away under her guidance.

“Perhaps you might call me Robyn, as well,” the man suggests, a burst of confidence striking him. She lays the bandages to the side.

“Robyn, like the bird,” she murmurs, taking the jar into her hands for the second time that day, allowing him to hold it as she applies it softly to his chapped skin.

His breath hitches lightly, and she bites the inside of her mouth in amusement. 

“I thank you greatly,” he says before she is even finished, “you are a most beautiful and gentle lady.”

“I have my moments,” she jokes drily, and he throws his head back in laughter, surprising her. Were all Northmen so easily delighted? Somehow Delena thinks not.

The bandages are replaced easily, and Delena washes her hands in the water basin nearby, flicking the remaining water off as Robyn shrugs on a robe, having given up on the tunic for the day.

“My la—Delena,” he says, when she is finished wiping her hands. “After the kindness you have done me, I must insist that you please share a glass of cider for me. It is the least I can do.”

 _Might be he has good manners, more likely he wishes to spend time with me,_ Delena thinks amusedly. At any rate, he seems harmless, and she has a few moments to spare, so she nods and pours for them.

“I feel I must apologize once again,” he chuckles when they are both seated and sipping, shaking his head. “I only now recalled that you introduced yourself as Lady Fossoway, and I believe that your family is famous for it’s apple cider, is it not?”

“You are correct, but I am grateful for your offering nonetheless. I have not had cider in some time,” she smiles indulgently, and receives a grin as bright as the sun in response.

“Well, I am glad for that at least. Although I confess I wonder why you have not partaken in your family’s production lately?”

Keeping the smile on her face takes effort. “I have served the princess in King’s Landing for several years, my Lord. That has kept me away from my home.”

“Robyn,” he corrects softly, and they both laugh at that.

“Yes, Robyn,” she agrees, swallowing more of the cider.

She can physically see his mind rotating, desperately searching for something to speak of with her, and she finds it heartwarming. Was this what Viserra's life was like all the time? It was amazing the girl's head was not even bigger.

“May I ask if you enjoy serving the princess? I think you must, for you have come all this way with her.”

Delena can tell this man would not know Court from a circus. No one with any experience in King’s Landing would think that service to the royal family was at the pleasure of the servant, and indeed for many it was downright miserable. That has not been Delena’s experience, although at times Viserra could be extremely aggravating due to her selfish nature, which any princess would have. Nonetheless, Delena is happy to serve, was overjoyed when her aunt Lady Florence wrote to Cider Hall to request Delena come to King’s Landing. Delena was packed off in a matter of days, and never once did she look back at Cider Hall. It could have burned down behind her and she would have only urged her horse on faster.

Aunt Florence was Delena’s savior, her father’s much-elder sister who had married the Tyrell lord and was adored all across the Reach. Delena’s mother had once been Aunt Florence’s lady.

No matter how much she loved her, though, Aunt Florence was also Lady Tyrell, wife to the Master of Coin, and in truth, the Master of Coin herself. Uncle Martyn was little more than a well-meaning dolt in Delena’s eyes and all of the capitol shared that opinion. Time together was a rarity, a luxury, so Delena had accompanied Viserra knowing full well that there were no other true options for her. She could have gotten married, of course, but that would have been another matter entirely...

“I apologize, I should not have asked such a question,” Lord Woolfield interrupts her thoughts, taking her silence for offense. Delena immediately shakes her head.

“It is I who should apologize, my mind wanders due to the cider. You must forgive me.”

She sets her cup down beside her, curtsying politely. “I will take my leave of you now, Robyn of Ramsgate. The princess needs attending, and we will visit White Harbor proper today. I would invite you, but of course, you must focus on your healing.”

“Aye, although I would be most honoured to accompany you, of course. Thank you for spending a moment with me,” he says, standing for her. She nods and turns to leave.

“My lady Delena,” he calls, and blushes fiercely, “I will likely remain in White Harbor for another two weeks. If you ever...if you find yourself craving cider, and company to go with it. It would be my great pleasure to share a cup and conversation with you again.”

“You are too kind,” she demures, looking upon him. He is handsome and respectful, she thinks. He finds her beautiful. She touched his skin and felt the muscles underneath. In King’s Landing, they would be halfway to a marriage proposal after this.

They are not in King’s Landing, she reminds herself, and makes a quick exit.

* * *

The interaction with Lord Woolfield was a strange once, Delena reflects, but not terrible. He was nearly too kind for her tastes, but when she thinks back to her time in King’s Landing, she think she might like kind men. It is becoming a pattern for her, unfortunately.

Finding Lord Desmond to deliver Viserra’s request is much easier than it was to find Robyn’s chambers. He is in the armory, sweaty from a morning spar, his blood likely still running hot. He nods curiously when he sees her, sending away some little boy after handing him a wooden sword.

“Be off, and don’t drop it on your foot this time,” he yells after the child, and receives a cheeky response for his efforts. He chuckles, and turns to Delena.

“My lady,” he bows. She thinks to extend him the same offer as she did this morning, ask him to call her Delena, but doesn’t just yet.

Lord Desmond had been nice enough to her since her arrival, dutifully if distractedly telling her whatever she wished to know. The wedding was busy and he clearly had half a hundred responsibilities all his own, but he still made time for her whenever she had any needs of him. Nonetheless, him and Viserra were—not getting along, to say the least. Delena does not know if that is a result of purposeful animus from him, or perhaps her, for indeed the Gods knew Viserra was not the easiest person to get along with. The silent boat ride from King’s Landing here was proof enough of that. 

Faline insisted Desmond was great fun however, affectionately calling him _cousin Desmond_ although Delena was unsure of what their actual relationship was. Faline was a young girl, much loved despite her bastard background, and evidently Desmond treated her well as did the rest of their household.

Still. Delena stays wary. Men were inconstant with women who were not their family.

“My lord, I am here to request an escort to Fishfoot Yard, for the princess and myself.”

“Of course,” he scoffs, and turns to finish fixing the weapons that require his attention. He does not say anything for a few moments.

“Would that be possible, my lord?” Delena pushes, and he shrugs.

“Aye, it’s possible. On the second hour, perhaps a bit after. I have several tasks to complete this morning and cannot attend to her Grace before.”

“Excellent,” she murmurs, purposely soft, testing a theory. He looks at her face passingly, but the meaning of the gesture is not lost on Delena.

"I will prepare horses for the three of us and a few guards, if you are comfortable. If you are not used to sitting a horse, you may ride with me, of course," he tells her, making curious eye contact and watching her reaction.

"Oh, I am quite comfortable sitting a saddle," she assures him, and there is an intrigued spark in his eyes at that.

_Viserra was correct on this much—he thinks every woman is flirting with him._

“What does the princess need?” he asks, wiping his hands of weapon oil and coming closer to her. Lords and heirs and their presumptions, Delena thinks with some scorn. She keeps her face sweet.

“I am unsure of it, I am only delivering her request.”

“Naturally,” he says drily. “Well, my lady, if I may presume to make a suggestion?”

She nods, bidding him go on.

“Perhaps she might make a list for you of what she needs. There is no need to trouble her Grace all the way to our lowly market when I might escort you and we can recover the items quickly. Indeed, I realize now that I have been remiss in introducing you to the wonders of our great city, such as our most famous winesink the Lazy Eel. The ale is undrinkable and the patrons indefensible, but the food is unforgettable. Such a place is doubtlessly beneath the princess, but I think you may be a more progressive sort of woman.” He smiles knowingly at her, and Delena notes that the crinkling of his eyes is not half unappealing.

“Just the two of us?” she clarifies.

“Aye,” he says, “it will be a most proper affair, of course. I simply think the company of two is often more enjoyable than that of three.”

She pretends to consider it. "And when you call the patronage indefensible, do you mean whores and cutthroats are present?"

"All those and pirates too," Desmond cocks an eyebrow as if telling a child a frightening story.

“Do you know what I think of that, my lord?” she asks innocently, and he cocks his head.

She can see how maidens might find him attractive and desirable. He is tall and strong and young, clearly capable if Lord Theomore’s trust in him is any indication. Men such as him often receive attention from women, and even sometimes from men, without honor, taking all sorts to bed with them as if it was their absolute right. It was ungallant and Delena has no patience or tolerance for such men, doubly so if they were supposed to be knights, sworn to a code of chivalry. Those vows may not mean much in the North that put little stock in knighthood, but they should still mean _something._

Her face turns to stone. “I think you insult me when you flirt with me, my lord. I am a guest in your home, yes, but I would like your respect nonetheless. I will inform the princess of your availability, and we will be present in the courtyard at the time you provided me, unless I receive word otherwise from you. Yes?”

His eyebrows raising are his only outward sign of shock at her admonishment. 

“Of course, my lady,” he replies, and bows slightly. “I meant you no offense. You have my apologies, if you please.”

“I do please,” she answers, because she cannot entirely alienate herself in this castle. "There are assumptions about ladies' maids that are untrue in my case."

Desmond mouth parts in surprise, as if he had never considered such a thing.

“And my lord,” she adds when she is about to depart, “you have made another false assumption beyond that. For you will find the princess enjoys taverns very much.”

“Does she, now,” he replies faintly, as if he barely heard her.

She takes her leave with her head held high.

* * *

By the time she returns to Viserra, the princess is in the midst of her day, embroidering with Lady Jessamyn and Mara and appearing particularly miserable. 

The fabric in her hands is the cashmere she bought at the market before, and the shape of the decoration a golden dragon. There are several others throughout the fabric, clearly meant to be a skirt of a gown, and the applique is as flawless as Viserra’s work always is.

She is surprised to see the dragons, given Viserra’s estrangement from the rest of House Targaryen. Delena certainly does not stitch apples onto her own bodices any longer. She supposes there is a pride in being a descendant of the Conqueror that Foss the Archer did not quite inspire.

Despite her apparent misery, Delena knows that stitching is an improvement from the _nothing_ Viserra has had to do in the previous days. The princess has not found her place yet and it makes her itch—in King’s Landing, Viserra had her lessons and charities that she needed to oversee. In White Harbor, even Delena is busier than Viserra, and her lady training from Lord Theomore’s daughters is going painfully slowly.

“Lady Delena,” Viserra cries, nearly bouncing out of her seat.

“My princess, I have come to collect you for our travel to the market, as you requested. Lord Desmond will escort us upon the second hour.” 

“The market?” Lady Jessamyn queries, and Viserra smiles charmingly.

“Indeed, my lady, I require some riding leathers with fur lining, so that I might enjoy the gift of horse your gracious father gave me. I fear what I brought from King’s Landing is horribly insufficient for the climate.” The dimples in her face emerged shyly, as if she was embarrassed by her lack of preparation, innocent maiden as she was.

Gods, she was irresistible when she wished to be! Theomore’s daughters fawned over her, giving her recommendations for leather workers to go to, the consensus being that a remarkably old woman only referred to as ‘Crone,’ her name long-forgotten, was the place to go for her needs. 

“He also said we might visit a tavern,” Delena adds, and Viserra gasps in barely false glee.

“That is Desmond,” Lady Mara laughed, “a man of his people. Oh, it is quite good to see you two getting along, for our lord father did worry.”

Viserra goes quiet and sour immediately, turning her face down to her embroidery once more.

“Why would Lord Theomore worry?” Delena asks.

Lady Mara sighs, exchanging a glance with her sister. “To tell the truth, young Desmond was not awfully excited when father announced he would marry again. But ever since the princess has arrived, we are delighted to see he has been most welcoming.”

“Indeed, he has been,” Viserra responds curtly, attempting to end the conversation there.

“It was not personal to you, sweet Viserra,” Jessamyn amends, “the loss of Desmond’s parents during his fostering was a difficult time for us all. He is most protective of his family, and we of him of course.” 

Sympathetic noises are made all around. Delena feels somewhat guilty for her prior actions now, thinking of how her own stepmother made her life miserable, and how after as many wives as Lord Theomore had been through, surely Desmond had reasons for his mistrust.

“But enough of that! Let me show you the blanket stitch, which will make your work with wool easy as pie, princess,” Jessamyn goes on, and Delena can see Viserra’s groan as clearly as if it had actually left her lips.

* * *

When they arrive in the yard, five horses are already saddled, one of them being Beauty, another the bronze stallion clearly belonging to Desmond, a yellow mare for her, and two additional guards seated on their mounts already.

“Princess, Lady Delena,” Lord Desmond greets, and Lord Theomore is also present, as jolly as a clam. 

“What a fine idea, going to town today!” he exclaims, kissing Viserra on each cheek and then directly on the mouth. The tension in slim shoulders comes quick as lightning. “What do you plan on purchasing, my love?”

“Riding leathers lined with fur for warmth, lord husband,” Viserra replies.

“Excellent! I insist you spare no expense, for our winters can be long and harsh.”

“We must be on our way now, grandfather, or the sun will escape us,” Desmond interrupts, and holds out a hand to assist Viserra in mounting Beauty. She ignores it, as she always does, and after the two give each other stiff glares, Desmond offers Delena the same.

She takes his hand, meeting his eyes with what she hopes is some kindness, and he tightens her saddle once she is seated.

“We were told to seek out the Crone,” Delena informs Lord Desmond when they arrive in the city square, for Viserra has not spoken a word since Lord Theomore kissed her farewell. 

“Certainly. She stays in the Old Mint, I believe,” he replies while fastening their horses. Even as he speaks to her, it is Viserra his eyes remain on, Viserra his eyes have hardly left since they departed New Castle.

Delena wonders at that…

The Crone is an aptly named woman, old as the Faith itself, half-blind with skin as pale as her white hair. Lord Desmond introduces them and their purpose after he greets her warmly, clearly familiar.

“Fetch me a hot pie, boy, and leave me the girls to measure.” Desmond does as he is bid, and the old woman takes Viserra in her wrinkled old hands, throwing a few logs on the nearby fire and having Delena strip Viserra of her cloak and outer gown to get better measurements. Her wrinkly hands handle Viserra’s delicate skin both tenderly and roughly, not apologizing even when Viserra yelps at the cold touch of her fingers.

There is something comforting in watching an old woman work, and Delena decides to speak with her, if the princess has lost all her words.

“How long have you worked as such?” she asks, running a finger over the tools hung on the wall. Some of them look more suited to torture than stitching.

“Since the direwolves roamed the land, girl. Since the great Wall was but a fence,” the Crone rasps, and Delena laughs. 

“You must have seen a great many sights in your time, then.”

“Much and more, much and more, my girl,” the Crone cackles. Delena hums, exploring the small studio in silence, touching dozens of different fur and leather samples until she is called upon to help the princess redress. Delena is still tying her laces when Desmond returns, and he quickly averts his gaze as befits his breeding. Perhaps he was not as lush as Viserra thought him.

Delena's own fitting went much faster, for her clothes were thin enough that no undressing was, much to her relief.

The Crone has Viserra sit to take the measures of her hands, for gloves that will stretch and shrink comfortably with the weather.

“Saw yer royal sires when when they came last, princess,” the Crone says suddenly, interrupting the silence of the fire crackling. “M'eyes could still see back 'en, and I never knew a woman that look like that before. Real beauty, 'er Grace. Kind as well.”

Viserra looks up, studying the Crone’s face then.

“Did you speak to the Queen?” Desmond inquires.

“Nay, child.”

“Then why do you name her kind, Crone?” Viserra sends an acerbic glance Desmond’s way when he asks that question, and he gives her a smarmy grin in return.

“I went to ‘er Court, boy. All the women did. Closed me shop the whole day t’hear the dragon queen speak 'er piece. Had a dozen rapers gelded and flogged that day, made the Gods in the trees proud.”

Desmond laughs good-naturedly at that. “Only a dozen? I’ve done as much as that in times when I hear my grandfather’s petitioners, Crone. Might I have your esteem as well?” The Crone only flicks him affectionately.

“Y’haven’t done half what she did, lad. Not ‘alf.”

Viserra speaks then, for the first time the entire afternoon. “Has he not?” 

“No!” the Crone hacks out a half. “More n’more women in this mint here, you see 'em? Runnin’ from rapers, and husbands, and raper husbands. Winter turns men into starvin' beasts. The Queen, she were listenin' to women, high and low all the same. You, little lord, y’don’t help the common women. Y’don’t even know they’re ‘ere.”

“If they have complaints, they should bring them to New Castle. We hear all petitions, common or noble,” Desmond insists, brow furrowing as if he did not understand what was truly at issue.

“They don’t know you,” Delena reasons out aloud, “they won’t bring their grievances to a man they don’t know.” She’d been privy to many of Queen Alysanne’s courts, standing beside the princess, and the complaints women brought were unlike any she had ever heard in King Jaehaerys's Great Hall. It was an experience she doubted a man could ever imagine—women had lives they simply could not fathom.

“My lady,” Desmond beseeches, “undoubtedly there is discomfort in a peasant woman bringing such a story to a man, and a noble no less. There is no questioning that. But my family is often amongst the people of this city and we make ourselves known for the very purpose of—”

“And still you are a man,” Viserra dismisses. “A man cannot hold a woman’s court. I have been to both women's sessions and otherwise, and they are not the same, but I am most familiar with such events.”

She locks eyes with Delena, a blaze of passion burning in her haunting purple eyes that Delena has not seen in quite some time. “I should conduct it. A court for the women, perhaps twice a month. Why not?”

“You?” Desmond scoffs, “you do not know a thing about the livelihoods of Northern women. How could you level judgements upon them?”

“Undoubtedly, darling, I will learn.” Delena holds herself from chuckling at the endearment that causes Desmond’s face to flush dark. “I have attended the women’s courts all my life and am familiar with the king’s laws better than any other within 100 leagues. Who else but me has been to every pronouncement in the last ten years?”

“As for how I can level judgements upon Northwomen,” Viserra withdraws her hands into her lap, casting an imperious gaze on the room, “well, if my mother could do so with great success, then so can I.”

* * *

Princess Viserra was not japing when she proposed the women’s court. She announced her intention to hold them the very night they returned from their visit with the Crone, and no one applauded the idea more than Lord Theomore himself. 

_She is her mother’s daughter!_ he had boasted, and the half-sneer on Viserra’s face told Delena that her princess did not enjoy the comparison.

She wished to be better than her mother of course, which was the reason she was holding these in the first place. That was a shame, for spite had a way of eating one alive, but still Delena had higher hopes for Viserra than the girl had for herself. Delena knows that, in her own way, the princess’s code of justice is strong. She had used underhanded tactics such as seduction or false innocence, of course, but when Viserra saw a knight or a squire overstep himself with a young maiden, she always sought to punish him in some manner. When Viserra had promised her maidenhead to whoever put their head in Balerion’s mouth, it was on sweet Gael’s behalf; when they would seek out the streets of King’s Landing for illicit entertainment, Viserra would flood the pocket of tavern wenches with coin for their service. She could be vindictive, yes, but that was a woman’s weapon in a world that allowed them little else. Viserra wielded spite as well as Prince Baelon did Dark Sister.

It might be a good thing, these courtly sessions.

It certainly gave the princess a reason to leap from her bed in the morning, which was a high relief to Delena. Having a moment to herself, to walk the gardens, was also a relief, although she had little chance among the preparations. Thankfully, the princess had insisted on being left alone this day, to do her readings. 

“Have you seen a winter rose before?” young Faline questions, skipping beside Delena in their turn around the frost-covered gardens.

“I have not,” Delena responds indulgently, not truly caring. Flowers were not her fancy. 

“They are quite beautiful,” Faline mumbles shyly, perhaps embarrassed to find something so simple as entrancing as she does.

“Run and fetch me one, then,” Delena sends her off. Faline squeaks and runs off in the direction of the greenhouse, leaving Delena to her thoughts.

_I have been in White Harbor for nearly half a year now._

It did not feel so long as that, but time was a fickle mistress. And in a few months, King’s Landing has faded into a distant memory, the pollution and traffic on the barely navigable city streets a fever dream. Her lady aunt had written her to ensure she was well, and to ask if any suitors had come knocking, for whom a bride price should be settled through her, rather than her father.

Delena would never accept such generosity, of course. Her aunt had done enough for her, and if her father was serious on his pledge to not spend a single silver stag on the wedding of the daughter he reviled, then so be it. She would simply never marry, and be happier for it.

Even thinking that deflates her. She could not think about marriage without thinking about _him._

When she came to King’s Landing as Viserra’s lady, she watched over the princess’s heart like a hawk, never allowing a boy even in the vicinity of such a precious treasure. It was foolish, for Viserra had given her heart to the one man who did not want it, but in the process Delena failed to safeguard her own.

That was one of the reasons she had gladly come to the North. She loved Leon, loved him too much, and for that reason she needed to escape him.

He would never love her back. All he saw was Princess Viserra, and standing next to her Delena was as sexless and unappealing as a maple tree. He was kind to her, of course, and in him she found a man who seemed to love words as little as she did. They spent hours in silence, reading in the cavernous library, at first independently and then later together. He would escort her to dinner when the sun dipped beneath the horizon, and she had to stop herself from holding his arm too tight, from letting her lips linger too long on his cheek when she kissed him farewell.

No one but her knew of her feelings. She locked them away deep within, swallowing the key far down, only ever opening the trunk of her private adoration for her own enjoyment. It feels good to be in love, she reflects. Even now, she still feels giddy when she thinks of him, and could not resist allowing furtive joy to come across her face. She closes her eyes, and tries to bring his face to mind—the hard jaw, the scruff he called a beard, his long and elegant fingers calloused from holding a weapon.

_We might have been happy together._

Quickly as that thought comes, she shakes it away. No, like as not they would not be happy together. Not if he knew everything there was about her, about her parents and her poverty, about Bartimos most of all…

Bartimos was witty enough, Delena supposes. He was sharp, as sharp as Viserra, and the two often had lively debates to the great consternation of their companions. Bartimos loved Viserra too, although considerably less than Leon did. He saw the princess as himself writ woman, something Delena could never be.

Still. Bartimos _saw_ her, unlike Leon. Delena cannot say what she felt for Bartimos, but she did not hate him, nor did she love him. It had been something else between them, something more honest than hate or love. 

Not for the first time, she wonders if she misses him. Viserra certainly did not, forgotten as soon as he left her sight. Delena wonders if he misses her, or Viserra.

Faline comes hurtling back, her heavy cloak flying in the wind behind her. Her cheeks are pink and her hair is all askew, but in her hands are three of the winter roses she spoke so highly of. Blue, bright blue in the shade of lapis, and just on the verge of blooming, she holds them out to Delena breathlessly, as if presenting her with an unbelievable discovery.

“Look! Here they are, aren’t they perfect!”

Delena coos as one does with children. “Indeed, how flawless they are. I have never seen such a bloom before in my life.” She touches the velvet petals, perfectly smooth half hearts that kiss her fingertips.

“I will press this one in my book,” Faline declares, and placing it safely in her sidebag, “and the other I will give to Princess Viserra.” 

Delena chuckles. No one took the role of little sister more seriously than Faline did. 

“And do you know what I will do with mine?” Delena toys with the stem in her hand, assessing the brittleness of it. “I will place it in her hair of the most beautiful winter maiden in the castle.”

She cracks the stem near to the bulb of the flower, sliding it behind Faline’s ear in one movement. The girl gasps, her eyes going wide with joy.

“Thank you, Lady Delena,” she mumbles, suddenly shy. Unaccustomed to being named beautiful, Delena assumes. Young girls often were, and were vulnerable to endearments as a result. 

Not under Delena’s watch. Faline will be protected.

The girl gasps again, and waves behind Delena. “Cousin Desmond!” she calls excitedly, and when Delena turns she finds exactly him. 

She has not seen much of Lord Desmond at all these past few weeks, her time spent most often among women as they made preparation for Viserra’s upcoming court, or with Lord Theomore as he endeavored to be with his new bride. Viserra was not quite so stiff around Lord Theomore any longer, not now that she had much else on her mind, but no affection had bloomed on her part. Delena was not as naive as Queen Alysanne to believe it ever would.

Desmond cuts an impressive figure in his black clothing, from his riding boots to his gloves to his wool tunic. The fur cloak around his shoulders is regal, and he appears every stitch the lordling he is. The warm grin on his face is inviting, and is aimed directly at Faline.

“I leave for hardly two weeks, and my little sparrow has blossomed into a beautiful young woman already,” he flatters Faline, and she threw herself to embrace him around the neck, allowing him to lift her and spin her around. 

“You look as if you come from a funeral, cousin!” she shrieks, and he laughs along, setting her down finally and kneeling in front of her. Faline was not very tall, and Lord Desmond was perhaps slightly above six feet in height, so when he does she still stands hardly above his head.

“Thankfully not, but I must confess I have a surprise for you, sweet Faline.”

“Indeed, cousin? Or are you japing as you were last time?” Her tone is accusatory as only a thirteen year old girl can accuse someone.

He threw his head back and laughed richly. “But was it not a surprise when you thought Uncle Edmund was a ghost? How odd, you seemed quite surprised to me.”

She huffs and kicks him lightly. “You scared me!”

“Aye, aye,” he mollifies her, “I apologize, cousin. But I promise this is not like the last time.” He reached into his outer layer and withdrew from it a thick letter, still sealed with wax and folded rather than rolled into a scroll. “Your mother wrote you a letter from Hornwood, which I brought directly from her hands to yours. Is this not a nice surprise?”

Evidently, it was. Faline could hardly contain her excitement, clapping her hands and giving Desmond a kiss of gratitude.

“Thank you, cousin Desmond! I will go and read it right now!”

“Yes, you shall,” he stood, still chuckling. “Begone, then. I will accompany Lady Delena on the rest of her walk. Shoo now, sparrow.”

Faline took off, the winter rose she once held in her hands forgotten and discarded on the ground. Delena picks it up carefully, dusting it off and placing it in her coat belt to keep it safe. She will press it on the girl’s behalf and give it to her another day. Another surprise.

“My lady,” Lord Desmond greets respectfully, and Delena curtsies lightly. “I am pleased to come across you, for I have meant to speak to you for some time now. Alas, there was never a moment.” He holds out his arm, and Delena slips her gloved hand into his elbow.

“How were your travels, my lord?”

He lets out a huff of laughter. “Amusing you should ask, my lady. In my time accompanying Lord Robyn back to Ramsgate, I do not believe an hour went by that I did not hear your name.”

“Is that so,” she says, coy.

She had shared several cups of cider with Lord Woolfield during his stay, not every day certainly but often enough. He named her all manners of beautiful, stammering compliments out as if she was the first women he had ever laid eyes upon, and they spoke of a great range of topics. Princess Viserra thought Robyn plain, although she did not discourage Delena from meeting him when she wished. Delena would name him something else: Innocent. _Different._

“Aye, and by the look on your face, you are well aware of the suffering my poor friend Woolfield undergoes,” his blue eyes sparkle knowingly.

“You think lowly of me, my lord,” she demures. “For shame.”

“I think immensely highly of you, Lady Delena,” Desmond says, suddenly serious, moving away from her and facing her. “It is for that reason that I wish to reiterate my apologies for my actions a moon ago, when I spoke inappropriately. It was ill-done, and cast aspersions upon you that I much regret.”

Delena considers it, stroking the flower petals within her clothes. 

“You have my forgiveness, my lord. Let us move forward in peace.” He bows his head gratefully.

“In the spirit of that peace, my lady, I wish to speak openly with you on a matter that you may find sensitive. That of marriage, if you will allow me.”

She nods warily, a sinking in her stomach.

“Good. I understand that as the princess’s unpromised handmaiden, that you might expect to find a husband among the men you come across. It is my wish, and with my grandfather’s agreement, that you should know House Manderly intends to support your marriage to any northern or southron man, by hosting your wedding and any support besides. You are a member of our household now, and you shall be treated as such.”

He eyes her as if expecting her to be upset by his words. When she does not speak, he continues.

“Of course there is no obligation. If you would prefer to remain unwed, there is no issue. My lady aunt Jessamyn never married, and she is well pleased with her lot.”

Delena sits to think for a moment. It was a generous offer indeed, but if it was made with Lord Woolfield in mind…

“If this is Lord Woolfield’s proposal, I am inclined to reject it,” she warns. 

He dismisses that notion handily, to her relief. “I would not presume. Although he is certainly a good man, and I know him well enough to say so.”

She hums, turning her eyes to the sky, blank as a journal’s empty page. The sun had not come out this day. Perhaps it was an omen.

“You seem to know something, then. Of my situation.” Her lack of financial support from her family. Her mother, a wayward bride, and how the shame of that follows her.

Desmond crosses his arms. “I know enough.”

“You know little,” she whispers, and tears sting her eyes. She rarely shows emotions, she knows, but this has been building for some time. “Funding is not the only thing I lack.”

He cocks his head. “What else, my lady?”

“I have no maidenhead, either. I gave it to my lover,” she confesses, locking her steel eyes onto his, daring him to criticize her. He only gazes upon her for a time, as if waiting for her to speak more.

When she doesn’t, he blows out air. “And do you expect to marry that man?”

She shakes her head. Bartimos had offered her a clumsy proposal once her maiden’s blood appeared on the sheets beneath him, and it had angered her beyond belief. “No, my Lord.”

“Then that changes nothing,” he decides with finality. “Many women do not go into marriage maidens, it hardly matters these days. Cousin Faline's lady mother married very well, and all knew her to already have a daughter.” 

“Some women guard their virtue. Viserra did,” she says contemplatively, mostly musing to herself. 

That seems to surprise him, his brow furrowing. “The princess?”

She gives him an admonishing look for his doubt. “Did you believe otherwise?”

He has the decency to look ashamed. “No, I do not suppose...well, she looks like a woman who could have had any lover she wished for, is all. Given her distaste for her husband, it would not have astounded me if it were so.”

“The princess was doubtlessly the most beautiful woman in all of King’s Landing. But she is not without her honor,” Delena chides him. _Or her pride. She would only lay with a man she loved, and Prince Baelon did not return her love._

“Of course, and I do not insinuate otherwise. I will keep your confidence close to me as well, my lady.” He holds out a hand for her to take, and she does, allowing him to walk her back to her room.

He is not so horrible, she thinks. He is rude and uncouth with Princess Viserra, surely, but she is much the same to him. In a strange way, Delena finds the two of them well-matched in their ongoing battle. At the very least they kept each other’s lives exciting. 

She sets Faline’s rose in a tome detailing the histories of Bran the Builder, closing it and forcing the once-delicate flower to fold into itself; crushed by outside forces until it becomes something else entirely.

* * *

The night before the women’s court was to be held for the first time, Viserra is a ball of energy, having to be cajoled into bed by dreamwine and Delena’s urging. The princess was bouncing from the walls, heavy books of law and northern history lying in various states upon every flat surface the room offered.

“How can we rest, Delena! We must have an absolute triumph to rival, nay, to _outperform_ that of Good Queen Alysanne tomorrow!” she insists, uttering her mother’s name with heavy sarcasm.

“And you will,” Delena promises serenely, already lying on top of the furs, rubbing her feet to relish in the luxurious texture of the preserved animal. “How not? You are Princess Viserra of House Targaryen.”

Viserra snorts, a most ungentle sound, and Delena snorts back, and then they collapse into a heap of giggles together after making mockery of a pig’s noises for a few moments.

She feels her age at this moment, a girl of seven and ten, feels the girl who used to sneak out into the streets of King’s Landing for laughter and entertainment, drinking horrible wine and feasting on peasant’s foods.

Perhaps Viserra feels the same, for they lock eyes and reach out for each other as they once in an entirely different set of chambers, slanting their lips together and kissing playfully like young children again. Never mind that Viserra was wedded, that they had both been bedded, that meant nothing at all.

Delena turns on her side to give a better angle, exploring Viserra’s wet and warm mouth, the impossible pleasure of her perfectly set lips. Viserra does the same, making the tiny pleasure noises she always does, and Delena finds herself mimicking her when their bodies press together so deliciously. 

Delena did not normally find pleasure in looking at other women’s figures, but the set of Viserra’s breasts against her own is divine, and she skirts her hands down the curvy body of the princess, the soft skin that somehow Prince Baelon had looked at and decided he wanted none of.

 _How did he send her away?_ Delena wonders in disbelief, as she slides her thigh between Viserra’s legs.

They had done this many times before, at first with a pillow between then, and then later only their nightgowns. It felt so sweet, to have sparks of bliss like this. Bartimos had shown her greater pleasure when he fucked her, but Delena somehow finds she prefers this, and when Viserra reciprocates by parting her legs enough to invite Delena in, slotting herself in place, Delena moans. 

Her hips move of their own accord for only a few blessed moments, stunted thrusts that promised her all Seven Heavens—

And then Viserra was pushing her away, panting with her eyes wild. Delena blinks. Had Viserra already had her peak? It had been no time at all, she laments, she does not wish to stop just yet, wants to keep going until the pressure turned to pain as it usually did.

But Viserra’s breathing was not one of a woman who had just submitted to, and had fulfilled, her desires. When Delena looks into her face properly, she finds Viserra appears more scared than anything, and her whimpers were not those of wanting _more_ , rather those of wishing for _less._

“Princess,” Delena soothes, stroking her hair and face, “it is alright, it is only me.”

“I know, I know,” Viserra swallows down, reaching for a glass of water and inhaling it all at once. “But for a moment it was not, Delena. For a moment it was not you.”

Delena says nothing, unsure what comforting words to impart. Viserra went underneath the furs, turning her back to Delena and shuddering. Delena wishes to reach out, to touch her, but she does not wish to cause more pain. Ages pass before she finally lays a hand on Viserra’s shoulders, only to find the princess has already succumbed to sleep, and Delena shifts to stare at the ceiling.

Viserra was right on one count. Delena barely finds rest that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> because nothin really happened in king's landing for a few years, and thousands of words talking about baelon grieving alyssa seems boring, the next chapter is also viserra and then i'll start flipping back n forth after that :)


	4. crossing lines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years into her marriage, Viserra's faces her greatest trial yet as the Lady of White Harbor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for mentions of rape and first night

**White Harbor, 89 AC**

**Princess Viserra Targaryen, Lady of White Harbor**

Northern winters were merciless in more ways than one.

At least within the walls of New Castle, there were always fires raging to abate the worst of the wicked cold. In the city below, commons wrapped themselves in garments of wool and hemp, their outer layers stuffed with down feathers of various birds, gathered in groups for the sake of warmth. Before leaving King’s Landing, Viserra had never known simple weather could rule the lives of people so intensely, but now coming up on two years since her arrival, she saw things differently. 

Two years, and only now would she meet the Warden of the North for the first time. It was laughable. But the Northern lords would gather in White Harbor to plan the rest of winter, now that a significant time had passed and certain food reserves were thinning, and Viserra was dreading the sudden influx of people that would descend on the keep. It did not bode well for her charges, the women of the city and surrounding areas who suffered under the hands of traveling men.

An increase in men meant plentiful business for whores. Viserra thought it funny that men were said to buy whores, when with the utter indiscretion they had in where they put their cock, they _were_ the whores. Nonetheless, when the whores were busy, the bastards were plentiful, and mouths to feed were already overwhelming. Viserra found it much more prudent to fund a supply of moon tea to brothels, something Lord Theomore had hemmed and hawed upon until Lord Desmond, of all people, came to her side on the matter. The heir's morals were looser than her husbands were, which had come in handily that time.

The women’s courts had been Viserra’s saving grace, she could admit so much. Without them...she shudders to imagine what her life would be like. The common and noblewomen had come to respect her even though she was not truly, and would never be, one of them. That was perfectly fine—Viserra would hate to be mistaken for one of them. She was the blood of Old Valyria, and when she cast down judgements on behalf of fisherwives, widows, defenseless maidens, and jilted merchants, she felt powerful. 

It rankled her that Lord Theomore was the person she derived power from, the person she requested permission from when one of her judgements dealt with a more complex matter than others. Such as the moon tea decree. 

“Dear wife,” he had said, “to make moon tea readily available may encourage maidens to be...unchaste. I dare not insult the Maiden in such a manner.”

“And to not have it available encourages what precisely, lord husband? Whores only exist because men pay coin for their services. Why should women bear the burden of the vile behavior of men, forced to sell themselves even more aggressively to feed their children? The Seven do not love bastards anyhow, so I do not see how any of them would be insulted in this case,” she had replied, and barely kept the contempt from her tone.

“Grandsire, perhaps there is a middle ground,” deplorable Desmond interjected, “we might provide the coin to motherhouses or brothels without official decree, and then the effect would be the same without House Manderly being seen to encourage such a profession. There is no difference, except Princess Viserra would not be hailed as the patron saint of whores.”

It was an underhanded argument, derision thinly veiled, but Theomore had agreed to it and been relieved not to have to disagree with Viserra further. She knew he did not like to deny her. She even went through the trouble of thanking Theomore with a peck on his leathery cheek. 

Regardless, the women were smart enough to know who was behind the sponsorship, and when the next court came around Viserra found she commanded more trust and power with the smallfolk than she had before. Even duly married women seemed to appreciate it, for trueborn babies were as expensive to feed as the bastard ones.

Breaking her fast in her own chambers, she decides to make her way to her solar, the one Theomore had renovated and gifted her for her eighteenth nameday. There were feasts to plan—modest ones of course, but noble lords required pampering, and she was the lady of White Harbor after all. Not a half bad one. _Look, mother, I am everything you wished for me to be. Yes, all that, and fucking miserable._

“Princess!” she hears herself be hailed as she makes her way through the hallway connecting to the corridor leading to the training yard.

Turning slightly, she is dismayed to find Lord Desmond approaching, his face flush from what she assumes was a morning spar. His tunic was still somewhat undone, as if he had thrown it on hastily. 

The young men of the household seemed to enjoy training shirtless in the bitter cold of the morning, for the purpose of ‘building endurance.’ That a dozen young maidens watched and tittered had nothing to do with it, of course. Viserra never counted herself among the spectators even though she had once religiously attended the sparring in the Red Keep’s yard. Knights and squires often took their shirts off there as well, many times for Viserra’s own benefit. The novelty of vain young men with hard bodies has long worn off.

“Quite early in the morning to begin your harassment of me, my lord,” she delivers the first blow, when he enters her orbit. She pivots and continues walking, his infuriating long legs in stride with hers. Viserra was tall for a woman, an impressive five foot and ten inches, but he was taller still.

He laughs bluntly. “Delightful as ever, grandmother. There is something I must discuss with you, however.”

The moniker _grandmother_ was one he adopted around her first wedding anniversary, and she hated to admit how effective it was. Gods, he was a cunt, but at times a clever one. They had largely made their peace with one another at this point, but Viserra doubts he would ever be less insufferable, or that the pettiness of their interactions would ever truly fade away.

“Do share, darling.” He hated to be called _darling_ as much as she hated _grandmother._ She let him look at her in irritation, pretending she noticed nothing. 

“Your women’s court, to be held the twenty-seventh of this moon,” he finally let out, “might it occur on a different day? Or in a different location than usual?”

“No and no,” she replies, breezily.

“Let me explain at least,” he entreats her, “the lords will arrive over a few days prior to that date. The number of them is large, and a meeting between them requires a space such as Merman’s Court. Doubly so considering the status of the lords in question. I understand that you are accustomed to utilizing-”

“You wish to move the women’s court in order to accommodate a meeting of noblemen,” she summarizes flatly, looking over and meeting his eyes as they walk.

“Aye, yes, to discuss the needs of winter to come. It is an important topic, and it was an honor for this castle to be chosen as the place to converge,” he reasons, as if she is stupid and does not understand this.

“Of course,” she murmurs, obligingly.

“You will move the court, then?” he repeats, sounding surprised.

“My women’s court?”

“Indeed.”

“The one I hold on the same days each moon, the fifteenth and the twenty-seventh, and have for the past, hmm, let us say one year and some portion of a year besides?”

His eyes narrow and his mouth turns up at the edges, as if he knows she is playing with him but not quite why. “Aye, that one.”

“Will I move the court for the purpose of hosting noblemen, who will eat, drink, and sleep at House Manderly’s expense for perhaps two weeks, perhaps longer?”

“Princess, make your meaning clear,” he huffs, although his mouth remains up-turned and amused. 

She sighs dramatically, stopping and standing in front of the closed door to her solar with her arms loosely crossed. He shakes his head as if she is being ridiculous, gesturing for her to go on.

“Will I move the court that these women are promised for the sake of pleasing noble Lords, making it clear that the Lords are more deserving of New Castle’s hospitality, and eroding the goodwill that has taken this long to build? Will I do that, and expect these women to still feel as if I value their petitions regardless of status, some petitions against the very Lords who we will wine and dine in their time here? That is what you ask me, my Lord?”

He seems impressed at her argument for a moment, but there is still challenge in his eyes when he speaks again. “You have held these sessions for quite a time, princess. Do you not believe that in that time, you have earned the trust of these women that they would not assume the worst of one single cancellation? Imagine if you became ill, your Grace.”

“First of all, I have never once been sick. Those with the true dragon’s blood never succumb to common maladies,” she replies, flipping her braid over her shoulder. “Second of all, perhaps you believe trust is some easy thing. You are the son of the merman and your good reputation is a result of thousands of years of Manderly relations with the people.”

He cocks his head, and she continues.

“I am a foreigner to the North, and to Westeros in general. One need only look upon me to see that. My speech is different from yours, for Valyrian was my first tongue, and my royal House one of… contentious reputation. My youth is another factor against me, and my upbringing could not be less like that of those whose claims I hear. So yes, there is trust between myself and the women, the work of many moons, and no, I will not allow a single cancellation to undo even a thread of what I have built. That is my final answer, my lord.”

He seems to contemplate that for a few moments, mouth parted as if he wants to speak but is gathering his words first. The redness of the morning exercise has faded away from his face now.

_These courts are mine. I built them from nothing, my mother be damned, she came and heard women once and then flew away on the back of her dragon, but I have little else and I will not put it in danger for anything. Much less a gaggle of fat old men._

Finally he sighs in defeat. “We might discuss this further, but I can see plainly you will not waver, so I will not waste my time attempting to convince you. Fine, then, for one day the lords will meet in the Small Hall, and the women's court will proceed as planned.”

She smirks triumphantly. “It is good that you know when you are beaten.”

He rolls his eyes back at her. “You would see it that way, princess.” 

“Oh? And what other way should I see it, then?”

Desmond chuckles as if they are japing with one another. “Perhaps that your argument was convincing, and that your stubborn nature is so well-suited to serving your petitioners that I would defer to your judgement on this matter?” 

“Thank the Seven you are here to decide what I am well-suited to,” she grumbles, but he only laughs as he retreats away.

“Thank the Seven you are here to find fault in my every word!” he shoots over his back.

“Fall off a bridge, my lord!” she sings sweetly, and he lazily waves without turning around. Viserra enters her solar, grinning in glee at having trounced him.

* * *

The lords arrive one by one, with them retinues of grizzled, bearded men, all of them carrying a man’s weight in weaponry, food, and warm clothing on their persons. Even their horses have clothing, meant to keep their muscles fit for riding. 

Lord Raymund Bolton arrives first, still the same unsettling man Viserra recalls from her wedding; Lord Tormund Umber Viserra recalls as the man who began her bedding, and she keeps her nose up at him when he arrives; Lord Locke is a man with a mild hunchback and a black beard with grey streaks combed through it.

Lord Woolfield comes in the night, sheepishly saying that when one rode the craggy, dangerous paths of Sheepshead Hills regularly, riding along the Broken Branch river with only the stars for guidance was child’s play.

When Lord Edric Stark arrives on the twenty-second day of the moon, his retinue is quite large, and most of the men younger than she thought they would be. There are even a few women among them, and they all seem high-spirited. It makes Viserra itch to see girls so free; she hopes they enjoy it while it lasts.

Before Lord Stark can make his greetings, a man introduces himself as Lord Flint and embraces Desmond warmly, making Viserra realize that the large retinue is actually two parties together, and that Lord Flint is apparently the man who fostered Lord Desmond for several years. Lord Stark was wedded to his eldest daughter, if Viserra remembers correctly. 

“My youngest, Minerva,” Lord Flint introduces to her, and Viserra greets a brown-eyed girl with a bird's nest of hair and a gap between her two front teeth. She was pretty despite all that, in a peculiar way.

“Yer Grace,” the girl says in the peasant manner, and bows rather than curtsies due to her restrictive riding leathers. _No wonder Desmond has no manners, if the man who raised this girl raised him as well._

Lord Stark only comes after—a man in his late twenties perhaps, bearded and proud. Viserra can see immediately that he is everything a man should be, not a spoiled boy playing at ruling, even as he merely thanks Theomore for his hospitality.

“New Castle is honored to host you for the first time, Lord Stark, since you became our Lord,” Theomore says gruffly, which between these men screamed of respect.

“The honor is mine. My father held you in high esteem until the day he died,” Lord Edric responds. 

The man turns to Viserra, and stands looking upon her for a moment. Then the Warden in the North bows to kiss her gloved hand, and when he rises one again, he meets her eyes for a fraction longer than normal. His are grey, and not the chilling pale ice chips that Lord Raymund boasted. No, his were warm and deep, his countenance hard yet fair.

“Princess Viserra. That you have been in my lands all this while without a personal welcome is my great shame. I am blessed to meet you at last, your Grace.”

She echoes his sentiment instinctively. When he moves on from her, his mouth curls into a fond grin, and he roughly grips Desmond's head in his hand.

“Ah, my young brother in arms,” he calls warmly, “it has been too long.”

“That it has, my Lord,” Desmond agrees genially. Lord Edric’s eyes meet Viserra’s again when his greetings are ended. She does not bother to hide that she is staring, keeping her gaze locked with his. He reminds her of someone else, only she cannot quite place the connection just yet.

On the twenty-third day, the final guest arrived, and it was the one Viserra and Delena were darkly curious about. Lord Karstark was Faline’s father, and the normally open girl was remarkably tight-lipped about him. She prepared for his arrival in a frenzy, and Viserra shared many worried looks with Delena over Faline’s nerves.

_Delena thinks he will be cruel. Perhaps we are both too quick to find cruelty in every father, but I am inclined to fear the same._

Lord Karstark is a man of an age with her husband, Viserra believes, although the decades of cheerfulness that could be seen on Lord Theomore’s face were nowhere to be found on that of Lord Harrion Karstark.

He appeared vicious to Viserra. And she thinks herself a decent judge of men’s characters.

The man dismounts from his horse in the outer keep, approaching Theomore without an ounce of affability in the curves of his mouth, or his brow.

“Lord Manderly,” he greets, and Theomore did not even smile, which was unlike him; only greeted him in return and ushered a servant with a platter of salt and bread to come close.

He gives her and Desmond similarly cold greetings, nearly contemptuous when he looks upon the young heir to the city. 

And of course, beside Desmond stands Faline. Normally she would not have the responsibility of greeting an incoming party, but in this case she had requested to be present, and so she stood among them. Ten and five, short yet slim, pretty and proud—

“Father,” she greets him, bowing respectfully. There is a measure of expectant hope in her innocent face, and the serpent that still lives within Viserra, calmer yet fiercer for it’s age, curls protectively around itself.

Lord Harrion grunts, looking upon his natural daughter as if in suspicion. “How old are you now, girl?”

“Ten and five, my lord,” she answers. He nods almost derisively. “Good. You are old enough to be wed. I will speak to Lord Manderly on a bride’s dower.”

“I thank you, my lord,” Faline replies, voice more gravelly than usual. _She is disappointed,_ Viserra sees plainly, and frowns although she is not surprised. Fathers were consummately disappointing, she had found.

Indeed, Wise King Jaehaerys, scion and patriarch of his people, had not lowered himself to send Viserra even one single letter in the time she had been here. Her mother mentioned him always in her useless ramblings, naturally. _Your mother and father send you all their love._ How pathetic those words were. All their love did not amount to very much love at all, it seemed.

The opening feast was the most lavish of them all, an intentional choice Viserra had made. In comparison to the feasts of King's Landing, even this feast was relatively simple, simpler than Viserra’s gown—she wore a seagreen affair with fox fur lining the neck that sat off her shoulder, spun threads imitating sea creatures all along the belt of it, with accents of silver brocade and myrish lace soun so light they emphasized the ethereal quality of Viserra’s silver-gold hair, which she set loose around her. Around her neck sat a great sapphire surrounded by small diamonds, and her breasts were held high by the tight bodice, promising plenty without showing more than what was proper. The gown also had long sleeves, which allowed her to retain her gloves without appearing strange.

She is a vision of course, and the hush of the hall when she enters with Lord Theomore is proof enough. There are half a hundred eyes on her, and when she takes her seat gracefully, many of the lords approach their table, making sure to compliment her when they do.

Lord Raymund comes so quietly Viserra hardly hears him, only when he speaks did she realize he was standing beside her. His ridiculous height gives him the perfect angle to look directly into her cleavage, an opportunity he seizes.

“My lord, my princess. I thank you for the hospitality once more. Hopefully one day I might host the two of you in my own castle, and show you the many delights of the Dreadfort.” His creeping eyes on her breasts told Viserra that what he really wanted was to show her the delights of his bedroom, scarce as they may be. She crosses her arms over her chest.

“It would be our pleasure, my Lord Bolton. After winter ends,” she replies, and Theomore agrees.

“After winter ends,” he repeats, bowing and taking his leave.

When the seven dinner courses were taken away, a musician came with his lute: a man Viserra had found crawling around the brothel in town. Unsavory hobbies aside, he was a half decent singer in a place that did not boast much talent in the way of entertainment.

Faline stands up with him, smoothing her dress and her hair nervously as the hall shifts to look upon her. When she opens her mouth as the man plucked the first few notes from his instrument, the beginning stanza of The Last of the Giants emerging strong and clear, Viserra closes her eyes and let the incredible power of Faline’s young voice wash over her. _Sparrow,_ the Manderly's called her, for her voice was made of magic.

 _Heartbreaking and honest. She could bring me to weep._ Indeed, Viserra does let a few tears fall, and searches for Delena in the crowd to see how she fares—Delena is seated across from the bumbling if good-natured Lord Woolfield, both of them entranced by Faline. It was impossible not to be, the soulful tragic story of a dying giant brought to life by a girl who knew what it meant to feel alone and abandoned in her life.

And Lord Harrion, Faline’s father. He was not even watching, truly. Indeed, he was drunk.

Viserra wonders if any father knows how to love a daughter. If one did, she had not met them. Well, Viserra reflects, Theomore’s daughters loved him well, always attending to his needs and speaking of him fondly. But they were old women the both of them, and had left the grievances of their youth long behind them—perhaps Theomore was an awful father, and it was the mother that had fashioned them into the women they were. _Their mother, Theomore’s first wife; one of my many predecessors._

Lord Edric stands and approaches them when Faline concludes three songs, the musician taking charge of the evening with a ribald and upbeat rendition of The Bear and the Maiden Fair.

“Lord Theomore, you have provided us with a rare evening of great joy,” he smiles kindly, “and I find myself wondering if the princess would honor me with a dance?”

“My beloved loves to dance,” Theomore laughs heartily, his hand affectionately squeezing Viserra’s. “Come, my princess, you must go on! Nothing would please me more than to see my guests and my wife partaking in a pleasant evening amongst one another.”

Viserra smiles through the serpent baring its fangs at Theomore’s touch. The feel of his hands on her does not rankle her as it once did, although she will certainly never enjoy it.

When Lord Edric takes her into his arms, whisking her onto the floor and inviting other pairs to join them, Viserra finds herself...pleased. It is a strange, familiar feeling—dancing with a lord at a feast, a handsome lord who cannot keep his eyes away from her. Even now, he is looking upon her with interest.

“Your Grace, I must ask: how have you found your time in White Harbor? I hope Lord Theomore has treated you impeccably thus far.”

“Yes, of course, my lord,” she responds tersely, wishing he had chosen any other topic to open their conversation with. She does not care to discuss her husband, and searches for a change in subject. “You know, my lord, you have a quality to you that I recognize from elsewhere. I simply cannot quite place it…”

“Is that right?” he laughs, a rich and entirely masculine sound, “I confess, Princess, there is no other you remind me of. I have never seen a woman such as you before.” She grins coquettishly, and surprisingly enough, he winks at her. Still, even though he flatters her, she can tell it is not in the crude manner other men might. Lord Stark might fancy the idea of taking her to bed, but he would do so with the intention of making love to her gently, of pleasing her, Viserra believes. She finds herself wishing she was not wearing her gloves, and could feel his skin on hers. Alas, the gloves were necessary, or else the sick feeling of grimy touches upon her would overwhelm her quickly.

“Perhaps there is no other woman like me,” she says softly, curling her hand at the base of his neck. He spins her around the room as if there is no one else there but the two of them. Viserra feels intoxicated, although she drank very little.

He smiles fiendishly. As if he has a secret all to himself. “There cannot be. The Gods would not torture mortal men so.” She laughs, and it is not even the tiniest portion false.

* * *

Faline does not come to Viserra’s chambers that night—that does not surprise either her or Delena, who lie in their nightgowns gossiping with one another. As she grew older, Faline had moved away from spending her every moment with them, and found hobbies all her own to occupy her time with. Even without their third wheel present, Delena and Viserra are not kissing this night, for there is so very much to speak about.

“I feel as though I have not seen you in the past days,” Viserra pouts, lacing her hands with Delena’s. Delena’s hands are bigger than hers despite Viserra being taller than her, which is an amusing contrast.

“Robyn and I have been hiding,” Delena says conspiratorially, her eyes dancing.

“And who have you been hiding from?” 

She grins coyly. “From the eyes of all. What we have been doing, I would not want others to see.”

Viserra gasps. “Have you been _fucking_ Lord Woolfield?”

Delena giggles gaily. “Not fucking, no. We have been talking. And, as of today, kissing.”

Viserra shoves her shoulder reproachfully. “And to think I thought it could get no worse than Bartimos Celtigar, of all people.” Viserra had been surprised when Delena confessed to having laid with the heir to Driftmark, and several times at that. Viserra had never thought Bartimos the type of man one would take as a lover—he was far too irksome, always needing to be right, always wishing to spar with words. But she supposes he was not too hard on the eyes, certainly not a warrior but a different type of attractive man. One who teased women mercilessly until it drove them mad either with desire or contempt.

Delena groans. “Oh, have mercy and do not remind me!” She adopts a wry look and turns back to Viserra. “And besides, there is a more interesting man to discuss. Lord Edric Stark.”

Viserra kicks her softly. “There is nothing to say,” she says sourly. Yes, Lord Edric seemed a good man, so self-assured it brought all around him to feel comfort. But he was wedded, and she was wedded, and when he tightened his arm around her waist during their dance she had a brief flash of panic that ruined everything.

“No?” Delena says quietly.

“No,” Viserra sighs.

A knock on the door jolts them both, the honey glaze of the night fading away.

“Princess?” comes a voice, and Viserra deflates. _Theomore._

“Viserra,” Delena tries to comfort her, but she shrugs the Fossoway girl off. Placing a robe of black silk over her nightgown of the same, she pours herself a glass of wine and drinks it quickly. The slithering inside of her scratches at her flesh.

Delena redresses as well, allowing Lord Theomore entrance and making her way to her own chambers.

 _Why tonight,_ Viserra laments. Everything was going so well…

“Princess, I apologize for coming to you so late,” Lord Theomore says when he has entered. He is clad in his nightclothes as well, his belly larger when a belt is not employed. Viserra does not bother to respond, sliding onto the bedcovers and looking upon her husband expectantly. It was too cold to take her clothes off, she often told him, and he normally accepted that.

“Ah, sweet Viserra,” he croons, seating himself next to her and kissing her softly. She let him as she always did, and kept her face schooled in an unreadable manner when he pulled away.

“Did you enjoy this evening?” he asks, hope in his eyes.

“I did, yes, lord husband,” she replies nonchalantly.

“Good, good,” he enthuses, “we have not had the ability to have such events lately. It is to my shame - I always wish to honor you with feasts and gifts such as you would find delightful.”

“Winter is hard, there is no place for such events now,” she mumbles sympathetically. It does not mean she likes it, but it is the truth. The women who come to her hearings often wore threadbare clothing and had not eaten beyond bread and gruel in at least a week. It made Viserra uncomfortable, to be honest, and to live lavishly would heighten that discomfort.

“You are most understanding, Viserra. I adore that about you.” When she looks up, his eyes rest uncomfortably intense upon her, as if he was searching for something that he could not quite find.

 _If it is love you want, there is none for you here._ She did not think that with scorn, only exhaustion.

“Viserra—princess, perhaps you already know that if there is ever anything you need, or desire, I will do all in my power to grant it. I wish to make you happy, my beloved. I know this is a different life than you are used to, but your adjustment has been magnificent. I am most proud to have you as a wife, as any man would. You please me greatly, Viserra.”

His little speech is wasted on her. She wishes he would just get on top of her and get it over with, but his imploring gaze tells her he wishes her to respond.

“Many thanks, Theomore. I am pleased that you feel so. I have no want of anything, for you are always most generous.” _Nothing I want could be given to me by you. I want to go home, to the oppressive, horrible, intoxicating smells of King’s Landing again, where I can be free._

He stares at her still, that infuriating searching quality remaining in his sunken, soft blue gaze. Whatever it is he wants, he must give up on finding it at some point, because he kisses her hands tenderly. His eyes seem sad, Viserra realizes.

“Then I will bid you goodnight, my sweet. And I pray you never forget that your husband cherishes you.” He tarries for a few moments after that, as if giving her a chance to say something. He was acting queerly—Viserra stays quiet, although she is somewhat bewildered.

He leaves finally, and she gathers her furs and pillows to set in front of the fire to sleep. The flickering comforts her, and calms the serpent within. 

* * *

On the twenty-seventh day of the moon, with the Northern lords confined to the Small Hall, Viserra takes her seat on the Chair of Tridents in Merman’s Court, welcoming the peasant women with vegetable soup and and bread when they walked in. Viserra had discovered they enjoyed that show of hospitality on a day when there were leftover foods from a feast once, and she had allowed them to partake. It was the small things, she found.

Just one thing she found that her mother had not, she thinks with no little amount of pride.

Complaints are generally boring, Delena and Lady Jessamyn sitting to her right, while a scribe on her left who is wearing the Manderly colors furiously notes down the circumstances they were presented with and the judgements passed down. She hears half a dozen petitioners about some petty thefts, a cow murdered here, a ream of roughspun cloth gone missing there. Some of the women bring her little tokens or gifts, and she accepts them for a copper coin in return regardless of their true value—another gesture Viserra found the peasants liked.

Near high noon, Viserra notices a group of women standing tightly around each other, all wearing the grey-brown of clothing crafted from necessity rather than vanity. Viserra’s own black gown studded with crystals and matching obsidian choker was muted, for a princess, but still likely appeared the height of luxury to these simple folk. 

At the center of the women stands a young girl, younger than she herself is by looks of it, and nervousness is written all over the girl’s face in the dark circles of her eyes and her chapped lower lip.

When her turn to be heard finally comes, Viserra leans forward in interest.

“M’princess,” she says, curtsying badly, “Marya, if you please, fisherwoman from a village between the Last River and the Shivering Sea.”

“Many blessings, Marya,” Viserra greets kindly. She used to say _Seven blessings_ but quickly learned the Seven were not widely adopted here. “You have brought quite an audience with you, fisherwoman.”

The girl looks back at her companions, as if for strength. “Aye, m’princess. Witnesses.”

Viserra exchanges a look with Jessamyn. That was odd…

“I come t’lay a charge, princess,” the girl, Marya, says, puffing her chest and breathing deeply to gather her courage. “I was just married two moons ago, you see…”

* * *

Princess Viserra storms down the hallway in a black rage, and Lady Jessamyn follows on her heel, alarm in every line of her body.

“Princess, you cannot—”

“I can, and I will, my lady,” she turns upon the matronly woman with righteous fury, challenging her to stop her when she levels her eyes upon her. Viserra’s cheeks are burning hot, her gloved hands shaking. Inside of her, the serpent rages as it never has before, tying itself into knots and baring its fangs, black scales shining bright and wrathful in the wake of her fury.

Lady Jessamyn seems taken aback, a thunderbolt of shock in her eyes as if she never thought Viserra might have such a side to her. 

“You will not stop me,” she seethes, and Lady Jessamyn nods her head slowly, putting the pieces of Viserra’s long-buried temper together in her mind.

 _Good._ She turns sharply on her heel, charging towards her destination and allowing the anger, the violence to build within her. _So long I have bent and bowed for these people, made myself a lizard when I am a dragon. Today, they will meet the dragon._

The doors to the Small Hall are shut tight, with guards standing outside.

“Princess, the lords are in the midst of—”

“Open the doors, _now,_ ” she commands, and after exchanging a look with one another, they do just that; allowing Viserra to storm in, her black cape flying after her. The tiara on her head is heavy, a symbol of who she is. She had forgotten it herself for a moment, but now she remembers. _Fire and Blood._

The men are seated around a long table, Lord Desmond clearly mid-sentence when she enters, and they look up at her in astonishment.

“Beloved,” Theomore rises, confused, “is there something you need?”

There will be no skirting around courtly courtesies today. “Lord husband, did you grant me the right to hear the petitions of women and prescribe upon them judgments as fit the laws of our land?” she asks, deflecting his question.

“I-...yes, my princess, as—”

"And are you all not held to the levies of the King and Queen, insofar as you have bent your knees and sworn your allegiances to the Crown?" she interrupts him, no patience for any quivering.

There is an restless murmur in the room, as the lord look upon each other in apprehension and incomprehension. Enough of them mumble affirmatively that Viserra feels comfortable plowing forward.

“And is my husband not committed to keeping the King’s Law, under the purview of yourself, Lord and Warden Stark?”

Edric Stark's eyes narrow, but he responds in the iron tones of a lord. “He is, princess.”

“And will you fulfil that pledge when you are called upon to, my Lords?” she asks, and the faces around the table are uneasy. Nonetheless, Theomore assents quickly.

“Of course, wife, that is my duty.”

Lord Stark meaningfully considers her for a moment before replying, “yes, Princess Viserra. I will.”

“Then I call upon you to enforce the law of the king, my royal sire Jaehaerys Targaryen,” she proclaims, standing tall and fierce like one of the stone guardians on Dragonstone, “for Lord Harrion Karstark is guilty of the crime of rape, and the unlawful claiming of First Night.”

The hall erupts in commotion, an impossible amount of noise as protests and proclamations of belief or disbelief are traded, as some lords stand up or yell in order to be heard, as they clamber to assert their various authorities in order to take charge of the chaos surrounding them.

But when she looks upon him, the man who had turned Marya's wedding night from a long-awaited joy into a bleak terror: Lord Karstark is silent, and remorseless. The only emotion she can discern is his hate for her, carved in ice.

* * *

It takes a time for the voices to quiet enough for anyone to hear another speak, and by the time it does Theomore is standing in front of her, his face deadly serious as he tries to get her to explain herself further.

“Close the doors,” she hears a commanding voice say. Desmond is standing, addressing the guards. “If we are hearing this, we will hear it amongst ourselves.”

“Oh, you will hear this,” she throws off Theomore’s grip, “you will hear this, my lords.”

“We will,” Lord Edric finally speaks, his word ringing above all others. He nods, and the doors are sealed without further delay.

“This is a most serious matter,” Theomore worries, pulling a chair for Viserra to sit by him. She summarily refuses, “I will not be seated at a table with a rapist, lord husband.”

She stalks to the short edge of the table, standing directly across from Lord Edric as she tells the story of young Marya. Of her marriage to her sweetheart, much awaited by both families, of the happiness and blessings she expected to rain upon her after her wedding. Of Lord Karstark coming across the wedding, of his men restraining her new husband while he forced her upon the bed that was meant to be her marital bed, and the quickness with which he departed afterwards. The wreckage remained, however. The wreckage remains and so Marya sought out Viserra’s court, having heard that women would be heard fairly there.

Her lord was Harrion himself, and he would never grant her any redress. It was him who had done the crime, after all.

“A peasant woman searching for money,” Lord Karstark bellows, face red and spluttering, “she has no proof, nor is she with child.”

“Fuck your coin!” Viserra yells, losing composure entirely, “it is not your coin she worries for, it is her husband, who lies awake at nights planning to challenge you in her honor, whose death will surely be at your hands unless justice is done prior! If you had any honor you might understand, but of course you have none! ”

He scoffs derisively. “Does some southron girl tell us how to govern in the North? We are descendants of the First Men, heroes' blood in our veins. The Targaryens practiced First Night just the same as the rest of us, but when it does not suit them any longer, they discard it and seek to take away our lordly rights? No, I say. There will be no tyranny in our lands.”

Lord Raymund Bolton speaks, quietly and insidiously like the worm she knew he was. “There is some truth there. Our recent ancestors practiced it, for your own grandfather had a bastard of a woman whose First Night he claimed, Lord Stark. If southron nobles do not claim their rights any longer, that is no business of ours.”

Viserra seethes. “The laws of the King are the laws of all Westeros. Rise in rebellion if you do not agree, and let dragons be the judges of your claim of _rights._ Caraxes and Vhagar will give you the hearing that you deserve!”

“You threaten us into obedience? What will you demand next?” Lord Karstark laughs heartily, and Viserra nearly erupts into flames, nearly leaps across the table to strangle him herself—

“All crimes are made so under threat of punishment, and treason is no different,” Lord Theomore interrupts, face grave. “My wife made no error in her assessment, for if you are guilty of this crime then you shall face the consequence. And I have not heard you deny it, Harrion.” 

Lord Umber grumbles his words. “Even if he did it, what harm? The girl has no babe. Her husband does not spurn her, from what we have heard, so I see not the need for criminal proceedings on this matter.”

 _The tide is turning against her,_ she quickly ascertains. They do not care -

“Rape is not a crime only if a woman falls with child,” Lord Stark says wearily, his voice not raised with emotion as all the others. “Even a whore might claim relief from such a charge, for the crime is against her person.”

Lord Woolfield speaks in agreement, his normal expression of ease erased, replaced with a troubled mien, “First Night has been outlawed for nigh on thirty years. I have not heard of it being employed ever in my life, and any claim of it is abhorrent.”

For the first time, Lord Karstark seems to lose his words, struck dumb at the realization that perhaps the other lords did not see as he did. “I was already a grown man with sons when that dragon queen came and made her laws upon us, without our consent or consideration. So were you, Lord Theomore.”

 _He admits it._ Viserra blinks.

“Aye, I was, but I never once claimed it. There is no honor in taking an unwilling woman.” Theomore sighs heavily; he seems pained. “Then, if you confess it, I must urge my lords present to consider the punishment of death. You may swear the vows of the Night’s Watch, of course. It would reflect well upon your children for you to do so.”

The hall is so quiet a pin might drop and it would be heard.

“So be it,” Lord Karstark gruffs, “I see these young Lords do not recognize the wisdom of their elders. Very well, I claim my right to a trial by combat. Am I still entitled to that, at least?”

Desmond rises to the challenge, standing tall. “You are. With your permission, grandfather, I will defend the judgement of White Harbor’s court and meet Lord Harrion’s sword with my own.”

Viserra is frozen, as frozen as the Northern tundra, staring at the tight set of Desmond’s jaw. Would he win in combat with an old warrior such as Lord Karstark? She does not know—she has never seen him fight, or even spar. 

Theomore’s face betrays his hesitance, but before he can speak, it is Lord Stark’s powerful voice that presides over the room.

“You will sit, young Desmond.” Desmond looks as if he means to argue, indignant at his dismissal, but Lord Edric puts up his hands in peace and stands himself. “The man ate your bread and salt. To slay him would bring the Gods rage upon you, and I will not have that. Besides, it is my duty to enact the laws of our land, to defend the rights of the young and innocent such as this girl Marya.”

He turns to Lord Karstark, and Viserra’s breath hitches. She feels as if her head is spinning from the events of the past hour.

“You may still choose the Black, Lord Harrion. But if you do not, then prepare yourself and meet me in the field at first light. That is time enough to set your affairs in order.

* * *

First light comes, and Viserra has not slept a wink. 

It was Lord Theomore who delivered the news to Faline, a task Viserra thought to do herself at first.

“I have raised Faline as if she were my own from near the day of her birth,” Theomore heaved, carrying a great weight on his shoulders. “I am more of a father to her than the man who sired her ever was. She should hear this from me. I will write her mother a raven as well, my dear niece Lady Hornwood; would that I were with her to deliver the news, that would be better, but alas…”

Viserra agreed only because she did not know what else to do. Instead, she went to Marya, telling her of the moneys that would be paid her as retribution, and the fate of Lord Karstark.

“Will Lord Stark slay ‘im? If he don’t m’family will surely suffer,” she asked, eyes wide with fear. Viserra gave her assurances, although in truth she had no idea. She knows nothing of battles, the Fourth Dornish War her only experience with bloodshed. The fighting in that conflict was the matter of a single day, of Father, Aemon, and Baelon atop their dragons and nothing else.

When Lord Stark enters the field in plain yet finely made armor, Desmond walks with him, carrying Lord Stark’s immense sword. _Ice,_ she knows that much, the premiere Valyrian steel blade of the North.

It was larger than Blackfyre. Twice the size of Dark Sister. Once, when Viserra was quite small, Aemon and Baelon had set Blackfyre and Dark Sister upon each other in a duel that half the Court had rushed to watch.

Aemon had won that day through sheer brute force, although the match was near an hour long and evenly split, to hear Court tell it. Viserra was too young to remember the spins and parries, but she did recall Aemon kneeling down to his younger siblings afterwards and telling them, “it is not the size of the sword that wins a battle. Baelon might have defeated me there, but the Gods were on my side.”

He was constantly telling them little wisdoms, Baelon peppering in wicked japes when Aemon became too solemn. Alyssa had a bawdy humor all her own, but Viserra never saw much of it—her elder sister had always vastly preferred the company of their brothers.

Reminiscing on her childhood, Viserra is suddenly struck with realization. _That is who Lord Stark reminds me of. I see my brother Baelon in him._

Thoughts of Baelon were still painful, but Edric Stark had much of Baelon’s good humor, his affable kindness and strength of stature as well as of character. It was obvious now, she did not know why she had not recognized it before, but the more she looked at him the more startling the similarities were. 

The day she left, it was Aemon who escorted her to the ship, Aemon along with little Rhaenys. Her eldest brother had kissed her forehead fondly, and promised that they would see one another soon enough. She wanted it to be Baelon instead, even if it was only to say goodbye. 

No, that wasn’t true. She would never be pleased with goodbye, she may have even begged him to rescue her, likely to no avail. It was better that it had been Aemon.

Lord Karstark enters the arena with a battle axe instead of a sword, and Viserra turns to Theomore in worry. “Will Lord Edric be able to defeat him, lord husband?”

He smiles sadly at her. “The Gods will decide. But either way, he should have taken the Black.”

“How fares Faline?”

That makes Theomore sadder still. “She will need time.”

Lord Edric stands with Ice held before him, giving Lord Harrion one last opportunity to end this. “I would rather die defending our ways than kneel to a dictator,” is the defiant thanks he gets for his efforts.

“Then,” Lord Edric passes his judgement stone-faced. “In the name of Jaehaerys of House Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, I, Edric of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, sentence you to die for the crimes of rape and treason. May the Gods have Mercy on your soul, uncle.”

In the end, Lord Karstark does not die defending the North’s old ways. He dies on his knees, blood overflowing from his mouth and staining his beard.

* * *

Viserra avoids nearly everyone for the rest of the conclave. She sends Delena away during the nights, and takes her leave from dinner quickly. There is a somber cloud over the proceedings, and she needs time to herself.

_I brought about his death. He died because of me._

His own actions brought about his death, of course, but in her heart she feels as though she has blood on her hands. Righteous blood, righteous death, whatever she called it, it was her fault. Nobody had wanted Lord Harrion dead besides her, for the girl Marya barely even reacted except to express relief for the safety of her family, and the Northern lords hardly spoke to her any longer. Granted, she gave them few opportunities to do so. She wonders if they despise her—as if she cares! She was the one who should despise them, savages and brutes, hiding rapists in their midsts—no, that attempt at self-soothing was not working. She did not scorn them, not truly.

The final feast was the second most lavish according to her own design, and so Viserra curses herself because that means she will be required to remain in the hall for longer. There is music yes, and drinking, and even japing, but she is not in the mood.

“My beloved,” Theomore attempts to comfort her with a hand on her knee, sensing her depression.

“May I be excused for a moment of fresh air?” she requests abruptly, and of course he grants it to her.

Outside is so entirely cold that in some way it is as if the cold does not exist at all. The numbness of existing amongst the fragile and crackling air of a crisp winter’s night is a relief to her worn senses, a balm against the oppressive unknowing of her tumultuous emotions. 

Her breath appears before in a hazy cloud, her eyes watering against the assault of the glacial atmosphere, tears making the shining stars above her blur magnificently. The moon is full, encased within the Shadowcat constellation, thousands of miles away from her but so large Viserra feels she might reach out and glance her glove across the surface if she stretches enough.

Footsteps behind her interrupt her reverie, and when Lord Stark appears, his hair tied into a bun behind him, she welcomes the company.

“Lord Edric,” she greets demurely, a difficult thing to do when fox fur is wrapped around her neck so tightly. She loosens it to a degree, allowing wind to softly bite at her chest.

“Princess Viserra. I confess I am glad to come across you, for I feared I would not be able to speak to you before my departure on the morrow,” he responds, and Viserra notes he wore half as much protective clothing as she did. Of the North, indeed.

“Oh? And what did you wish to speak to me of, my lord?”

He smiles handsomely at her. Knowingly, as if he understands her. “I wished to apologize for the bloodiness you were forced to witness. Great disrespect was shown to your House by my fallen uncle Harrion, and I know your royal sires will not be pleased to hear of such sentiments existing in close quarters with their daughter.”

She shrugs. “I do not know where they would hear of it, my lord. Certainly not from me.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You do not take your parents into your personal confidence, princess?”

“Did you ever?” she turns the tables onto him. He barks out a laugh, appearing nostalgic.

“My parents, may they rest easily, were not so expressive with words of affection. I was the heir, and they took my rearing as such quite seriously. I am grateful everyday for their training, but it is true that at times I wish I knew more of them as persons, rather than lord and lady.”

She only hums, looking out to the sky once more. He does the same, apparently content to exist in silence together, and if she steals a handful of glances at his profile he gave no indication he noticed, or cared.

There was much of Baelon in him. Their parents had loved Aemon and Baelon so incredibly much, even Alyssa and Jocelyn just the same way: they were strict at times, loving at others, but always their arms were open to those first few children. Granted they had already been mostly grown by the time Viserra was born, but she always thought that something _extra_ had been put into the raising of her eldest siblings. Why else would they be as strong as they were, dragonriders and holding courtly positions, while all of their younger siblings...floundered around.

Viserra tried for a long time to be as wise as Aemon, as brave as Baelon, as fearless as Alyssa, but it never amounted to very much. Saera was the one Viserra was closest to in age, and when they were babes Saera was sweet as berries with her. That had not lasted long.

“You remind me of my brother, Lord Stark. That was who I could not place the other night,” she says, shattering the silence.

“Prince Aemon?” he asks, and she shakes her head. “Prince Baelon, then.”

“Yes, my brother Baelon.”

“May I assume that to be a compliment, princess?”

“Of the highest order. Baelon was always my favorite sibling.” _In more ways than I can admit to you._

He grins in a manner that shows his teeth, but his eyes seem alight as he turns to look upon her. “Then I am honored. I will say again, however, that there cannot be another one of you, princess.”

“Because you find me beautiful?” she asks, a bit disappointed. Was that all he saw in her?

“You are likely the most loveliest woman any of us Northern brutes have ever laid eyes upon,” he continues beaming and laughing, entirely comfortable with her, “but no, that is not why.”

She eyes him curiously, waiting for him to go on.

“It takes a strong-minded woman to do as you did, for the sake of justice. Many lords would not do as you did, spoiled as we are by our close relations over time. It was a much-needed reminder for us all, that our loyalty is to our people and our laws before it is to each other, and I would extend my gratitude to you for your bravery. Common women have often suffered at the grasping hands of lords.”

She ponders his words for a time, genuinely unable to muster a reaction. 

“I thought you must despise me for condemning a man to death, and your own kin,” she whispers, choked up.

Lord Stark winces. “I wish you did not think so, but I fear I cannot blame you. It is my hope that we might know each other better over time, so that I may show you the esteem I hold you in. Perhaps you may even-”

He is about to finish his sentence when a third body steps onto the balcony; when he steps into the moonlight, Lord Desmond’s face is blank of the normal teasing and exasperated expression he wears about her.

“Desmond,” Edric greets warmly.

“Lord Edric,” he replies, blankly. “The night must be quite pleasant that I find the both of you enjoying it out here. Might I share in it with you?”

“Of course. I was just telling her Grace that we must host you in Winterfell at some time in the future. I believe you would much enjoy the delights that my home has to offer, my princess.”

“I would be honored, my lord,” Viserra says, and finds she means it.

“I will be sure to bring her then,” Desmond interrupts, tone still strangely vacant. “After winter is over.” It sounded eerily similar to the _after winter ends_ Viserra had offered Lord Bolton when he invited her to the Dreadfort.

“By the time winter ends, it might be our Minerva will be monopolizing all of your time,” Lord Edric chuckles.

Desmond smiles. “Hopefully the season will not be so long as that. It will be another year at least before we marry.”

“You never know,” Lord Edric hums dreamily, his deep voice intoxicating. Then he turns his regard back to Viserra, and bows shortly. “I will take my leave of you now, Princess. I trust you are in capable hands.” He glances a parting kiss on her gloved hand, leaving behind only her and her personal agony.

She cocks her head, too tired for a verbal spar. “Is that Flint girl Minerva to be your wife, then?”

He narrows his eyes at her. “Aye, in a year or two.”

“Many felicitations, then.” The girl was half wild, and by no means the making of a Great Lady.

He shrugs it off gracelessly. “What were you speaking with Lord Stark about?”

Viserra hums. “What does it matter?”

“It matters to anyone who cares for the reputation of House Manderly,” he replies, a hint of venom in his tone. There is venom being released within her as well, the serpent indignant at the clear insinuation.

“That you would even make such an allusion,” she scoffs, and moves to leave the balcony. She has had enough of the cold, and of the company. 

He grabs her arm before she can leave, holding her in place. She could shake him off if she wished, but the touch...it makes her—

“I would make such an allusion because you have been batting your eyes at him since he arrived, princess,” he sneers, “find him handsome, do you? Much the worse for my dearest grandmother, Lord Stark loves his wife and their son more than _you_ can imagine.”

She rips her arm from his hand, stalking down the hallway incensed even as he turns and follows her closely with his heavy footsteps. “You know, against all common sense, my grandfather cares for you. He treats you well, better than most women could dream of! Perhaps if you even attempted to appreciate what he does for you, you might be happy. But of course that is not enough for you—”

Viserra swivels on her heel and gets close enough that they can feel each other breathing. “If you wish to call me a whore, my lord, say it and be done with it.”

He seems taken aback, indignant as if his words had any other logical end. “I did _not_ call you that.”

“No, of course, you would only name me a hundred other things. Spoiled and vain and ungrateful, is it not? Miserable harpy, perhaps, is that not it, arrogant and proud and the Gods know whatever else you might think.” Despite herself, tears begin to prick at her eyes, and she furiously blinks them back. She will _not_ cry in front of Desmond, she _won’t_.

“I would name you a woman who covets another man under your husband’s roof!” 

“And what a crime that is, because what is a woman if not her husband’s! Gods forbid I may have any feelings of my own beyond those sealed with the approval of the Lord of White Harbor!” she yells, unbelievably grateful that the feast has all the household occupied and no one is near to hear them. Still, she tries to escape, walking and nearly running down the hall away. He doesn’t let her, taking her arms in his grip again and holding her against a wall.

“Let me g—” he holds a hand against her mouth, muffling her speech.

“Shut up, shut up,” he whispers into her ear, his eyes perplexed, and she quiets down even as a tear manages to escape her. She is embarrassed to realize she is sobbing, only until she realizes it is not her. The sound of weeping is coming from somewhere else.

“This is Faline’s room,” Desmond observes in his low tone, nodding at the door that the crying noises come from, letting his hand fall from Viserra’s mouth and taking a step backwards.

“Gods, _Faline_ ,” Viserra’s face crumples completely, and she scrunches her eyes as they traitorously leak out evidence of her emotional state. This is too much, it has all been too much.

“Dry your eyes, princess,” Desmond pushes a pocket cloth into her hands insistently, voice much softer than it was before. She does so, and when she is finally decent enough to meet his eyes, his face is cloaked with guilt. They do not look away from each other for several beats, locked in some conflict of not being the first to acknowledge what just passed between them.

“I hate you,” she finally tells him, voice cracking pitifully, and she hates how weak she sounds.

“You have every right to,” he responds with only misery, shoulders sagging, “but Faline needs us now.”

They find Faline bawling on her bed, her knees hold to her chest and her hair a scraggly mess. “Go away!” she whines, but Viserra cajoles her into her own arms instead. Faline collapses into the princess’s hold, pain so raw it was painful to behold.

_I did this thing. I killed her father._

“I am sorry princess, I am so sorry,” she weeps, and Viserra exhales.

“What could you be sorry for? It is I who should be sorry. I should have come to you myself, you should not have not been alone all this time.”

“I am sorry for being the bastard daughter of a _raper_ ,” Faline wails, and the tears come heavier than before.

“Cousin Faline,” Desmond says softly, seating himself on the bed while Viserra holds her shaking body protectively. _You will not hurt her,_ she communicates through her accusing glare, and he looks away from her, rubbing Faline’s back instead.

“It does not matter who your parents are,” Viserra tells her, “all parents make is trouble in their children’s lives. You are a beautiful flower, the most cherished girl. My little sister.”

“Faline,” Desmond says sweetly, to no response, and then he comes closer until his knee is touching Viserra's own, so that he can soothe the hair away from Faline's ruddy face. It is amazingly tender, how he cares for her, a tenderness Viserra had never known him capable of.

"Faline, look at me," he says, and she slowly raises her face streaked red in compliance. Her breath is coming in gasps, crying even without having tears left to shed. “You know that my own parents died when I was but seven years of age. My father in a tavern brawl, my mother from illness the same year.” Faline nods. Viserra has never heard this story before. “It was the loneliest time of my life. I wished to follow them into the grave, that we might be a family again.”

He inhales sharply, this subject clearly painful for him. “I pray for their rest, but after they passed, Grandfather took me in as his own. He taught me to sit a horse, to raise a sword. Lord Flint fostered me, aye, but it was my own blood that molded me. Aunt Jessamyn raised me as well, the same way she raised you, and am I not a half decent man?”

“You are the best man there is, cousin Desmond,” Faline blubbers. Viserra is inclined to disagree, but of course Faline worships Desmond as her own hero.

He smiles sheepishly. “I wish that were so, sparrow. But what I mean to say is, my own father raised me as little as Harrion Karstark raised you—not hardly at all. We are both of us fatherless, but it matters naught. Look instead at who chooses to love you, the family of your heart. That is more a reflection of who you are than Lord Karstark could ever be.”

Faline’s crying has stilled to mere sniffling, and Viserra unsticks her locks from her neck. “Have I not chosen you as a little sister as well? I am most honored to be your family, little Faline.”

Faline nods frantically, wrapping her arms around Viserra’s waist as if she were actually the baby sparrow the Manderly’s nicknamed her for, and Viserra her mother come home to roost with a fat worm in her beak. For perhaps ten minutes they all sit there, comforting Faline with soothing touches and gentle words.

“Would you like some hot cocoa, then?” Desmond finally asks, “and some food as well, for I fear you have not eaten yet.”

Faline's _yes_ is so quiet it is hardly audible, but they all chuckle to hear it. Viserra raises her gaze to find Desmond looking directly at her, remorse clear in his face. Perhaps he felt bad to have made her spill tears, perhaps not, either way Viserra has no defenses left to her and she does not have the energy to fight him any longer. Strife between them is not as amusing as it once was. She lets the tiniest of nods come onto her face in a peace gesture, and he returns it even as some unnamed tension bleeds from his face.

He stands to leave for the kitchen—

Only Delena enters in a huff, wearing a wild look for a lady who always seems as calm as a babe at it’s mother’s breast.

“Princess,” she is breathing heavily, “I have been looking for you everywhere!” Her entrance indicates that she has something important to say, but she hesitates when she sees Faline sporting red-rimmed eyes.

“It is alright, we were just finishing speaking,” Viserra assures her, Faline lying with her head in Viserra’s lap. “What is it that has you so worked up, my lady?”

Delena bursts out laughing. “Princess, Lord Woolfield—he asked me to marry him!”

Viserra and Desmond both gasp. 

“Yes,” she shrieks, herself incredulous, “I told him of Bartimos, believing it would put an end to his attentions, but he asked for my hand instead. And princess…," she seems anxious all of a sudden, biting at her lip. Viserra’s brows raise impatiently. Delena’s face splits into an unabashed grin. “Princess, I agreed! We are to be wed!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally omw to check-in with baelon next !


	5. uneventful days, never-ending nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prince Baelon finds that the best laid plans are always the ones that go the most horribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i always think it's hysterical that two people in the same situation always seem to perceive it so differently, so writing baelon was v fun after so much viserra & co. shorter chapter cause men are not interesting enough for 10k words!

**King’s Landing, 90 AC**

**Prince Baelon the Brave**

At its heart, King’s Landing never changes. It grows wild and large, it accommodates seasons and travelers, but still it remains the same.

Aemon was busy presently with preparations for the feast to be held for the Feast Day of Our Father Above to come soon. The smallfolk had so little joy during the cold season that had been on them for nearly three years now, so the proclamation of a feast day was heartily welcomed. It was important to keep the people happy—the residents of King’s Landing were their direct subjects, unlike others who had Lords to look to for their needs.

As hard as it was to see beyond the city, they had to remember that all Seven Kingdoms were under Baelon’s father’s purview, and would one day be under the rule of Aemon. Jaehaerys and Alysanne knew their duty well, and right now their father was on a progress towards the Westerlands. Because of that, Baelon was responsible for some of the king’s duties, and it was those he fulfilled now.

Rhaenys had been offered the tasks before Baelon was, by Aemon, but she had elected to travel with her grandfather instead. Aemon and Jocelyn had both tried to tempt Rhaenys to remain, to step into some monarchal duties for the first time, but of course she was ten and six and wished to see the grandness of the Kingdoms. Baelon couldn’t fault her for that, and so he was the one to hold court and dine with ambassadors in the meantime. He was glad to do it, knowing that the King had accepted Rhaenys’s company likely because he was lonely on his trip without his wife.

Queen Alysanne was on Dragonstone, and had been there for several moons now. Baelon was beginning to fear she meant to remain there indefinitely, after the mysterious quarrel she had with Jaehaerys. To this day, none of them were entirely sure what the fight had been about.

Baelon knew some of the elements, Aemon and Jocelyn others. Pooled together it seemed like this: Since Viserra’s departure, Alysanne had been struck with pain at having lost what essentially amounted to four daughters in so few years. She wished to go to White Harbor, or, more madly, recall Saera to the Red Keep. Jaehaerys had refused both counts. Apparently, Viserra’s letters lacked any remorse for her utter irresponsibility, what she had put her family through, and their Kingly father refused to back away from his stance. He thought another year might help Viserra grow up. For Saera, there was no question of her returning, that was clear. And so, Alysanne went to Dragonstone, Maegelle taking a leave of absence from her duties in Oldtown to attend her. And Jaehaerys, well, he remained on Vermithor's back as he toured a dozen different castles, busying himself in distraction.

If there was anything the past moons had taught Baelon, it was that his parents could hold grudges longer than he ever imagined.

Baelon took a brisk walk around the training yard on his way to his destination, saddling his horse in the stable and riding towards the city gates that opened proudly to the black waters of Blackwater Bay. The city rose around him in clashes of sounds and people, who hooted and cheered as he rode past them.

When he arrived at the gates, the City Watch guards at the gates were a dingy sort, dressed in ill-fitting rags and mismatched armor. One of them did not even recognize Baelon, despite his silver hair and circlet acting as a siren for his identity. Baelon made a face once he was allowed out towards the port—at some point, they needed to do something about the men his family hired as guards in this city. They were a truly pathetic bunch.

He looked for the ship called _Sea Snake,_ and when he approached it, found the Master of Ships speaking to some crew member on the docks nearby.

“Ah, your Grace,” the sea-tanned Lord of Driftmark greets him respectfully, removing his hat and bowing.

“Lord Corlys,” Baelon nods, dismounting.

“I am pleased you came just now, for the man I wished to speak with you is already here.”

“You set the time, my lord,” Baelon responds gruffly, and gestures for Lord Corlys to lead the way.

This man has been Master of Ships for almost a year now. He was suited to his duties, yes, but Baelon could not help but feel he was untrustworthy. He seemed to have a secret that Baelon would prefer to know than not know, and sometimes, when a council meeting was being adjourned, he felt the master sailor’s eyes on him, studying carefully. Nobody else seemed to care about his suspicions, which was frustrating. Nobody except for Daemon, who did love a good mystery. 

The man Corlys wanted him to meet is a Tyroshi with a purple beard and many facial markings. Tattoos, Baelon knew them to be called, more common in the cities that had once been Valyria’s Daughters than in Westeros. They were intriguing, but he knows better than to ask what the patterns represented. 

That might cause great offense.

He takes the ale he is offered and drinks in goodwill. The bald-headed, bearded man looks to Corlys with overly trusting eyes, and the Velaryon Lord urged him to speak freely.

“Prince, I am the man most fortunate to be Ellio of Tyrosh. Or I was fortunate, before what befell me.” The man has a deep, rich voice, oddly comforting.

“Yes, and I am Prince Baelon Targaryen, as you know. Pray tell what befell you?”

“Ellio has been exiled. Exiled and his ships stolen from him,” he laments, speaking in the disconnected way that the Tyroshi often do when telling stories. It was a quirk all their own. “Ellio had a partner in his exports, a man he knew from his young age. Only his partner stole from him, his inventory and his ships, and when Ellio went to claim his rights in front of the Archon, the Archon was corrupt, and banished Ellio for spreading false rumors and besmirching a good name. But this did not happen as the Archon claimed.”

Baelon hums, losing interest rapidly. “That is most unfortunate. But why do you bring this matter to me? The Iron Throne is sworn not to interfere in the issues of Essos.”

The man nods in understanding. “Yes, Ellio understands this. However Ellio’s ships were not the only ones stolen. Other honest merchants have faced the same fate, and each of them who claimed their rights were banished just like Ellio. Not only in Tyrosh, but beyond, in Myr and Lys as well. All under the banner of some boy admiral, some Drahar in Myr, who seeks to fight against invaders from Volantis.” Ellio spit on the floor after saying that name, another common quirk of sailors. They always had to be so damn dramatic.

“What has this to do with us, my Lord,” Baelon turns to Corlys instead, frustrated with the time this was taking. There were a thousand things to be done…

“Please, he will finish in a moment,” the Lord of the Tides entreats him, and Baelon turns back to the sailor expectantly.

“The boy, Drahar,” the purple haired man finally gets to the point, “he is assembling an army at sea. He will turn against the Volantenes, he says, and use our ships to do so. But without our ships to defend us… Ellio and Ellio’s people fear the danger from pirates. They grow bold, bolder than bold, and they expand their territory while our navy gathers to fight war away from our ports.”

Baelon nods thoughtfully, turning over the information in his head. 

“There will be an influx of those fleeing the Free Cities,” Corlys adds, looking at Baelon meaningfully. “And where there are suddenly more people, more pirates, there are inevitably tensions on the water. Tensions that can easily turn to war.” As as Master of Ships that was a concern he was right to have. But it was also a clever way of getting the Crown involved in an issue that directly affected House Velaryon's incomes, which Baelon was less sympathetic towards.

Anyways, his father would never do anything about this. The King had no love for Lys.

“Perhaps,” Baelon sighs, finishing his ale with one hearty swallow and setting two gold dragons on the table before rising. The man called Ellio bows his head even as he scoops up the coin to place in his pouch.

When they step out of the small cabin in which they had their meeting, Corlys remains irritatingly close by Baelon’s side, and immediately begins pestering him about what they just heard. _Is this what seven-and-thirty years without a wife will do to you? Make you insufferable?_ he thinks to himself, before smiling graciously at the valued council member.

“We hear your concerns, my lord. However, there does not seem to be any pressing issue just yet, only possibilities. If the colonies seek to combine forces to push back invaders from the east of them, then, Westeros lies to the west. And we are pledged not to become involved. We can reassess the situation at a later date, if it becomes more dire.”

Lord Corlys nods his head, his shrewd blue eyes visible through the curtain of silver gold hair that crowns his head. “Of course, my Prince.”

Over head, Baelon hears a sound that can only be a dragon roar. Vhagar, perhaps? No, it doesn’t sound like his dragon—when he looks up he finds above him the bronze belly of Vermithor, and not far behind the Bronze Wyrm flapped the cherry-red wings of Meleys, much smaller than her predecessor although equally striking.

The sight of Meleys had once meant Alyssa was near. A dull thud passes in his chest.

Still, it is odd to see his father’s dragon returning so soon. His father was meant to travel all the way to The Twins, and last Baelon heard, he had not even made it to Lannisport yet. _The Twins._ What an elaborate ruse. It was just close enough to the Bite, and therefore to White Harbor, that Baelon did not put it past Jaehaerys to be giving Viserra a chance to come and see him, if she would lower her pride enough to do so. 

Now they will never know what she would have done, Baelon supposes. He gives his farewells to Lord Corlys, who appears strangely pale, and mounts his own horse while informing Baelon that he, too, will be returning to the Keep now.

They ride side-by-side, largely silent, until they reach the peak of Aegon’s High Hill, and Baelon goes to greet his father. Much to his annoyance, Lord Corlys follows behind him.

“Father!” Baelon booms when he enters the Great Hall, where Rhaenys, Aemon, Jocelyn, as well as Baelon’s two boys are already gathered. After a moment, he sees that the atmosphere is tense for a homecoming.

“Baelon, my son,” King Jaehaerys greets him fondly, embracing him closely and smiling wide. 

“How were your travels? I must confess I thought you to be gone from us longer.”

“Indeed,” Jaehaerys says cryptically, stroking his hands through his long beard. “Indeed, we thought to be as well. But I returned for a most joyous reason, and now I must greet the man to be my grandson in marriage, shall I not?”

 _What?_ Baelon is about to ask, puzzled. Rhaenys and Viserys had not quite taken to each other romantically yet, and unless something drastic had occurred on this progress, announcing a betrothal seems wildly premature—

“Lord Corlys!” Jaehaerys announces, exclaiming and moving to the man standing behind Baelon, “you have stolen our Rhaenys’s heart, and now you will have her hand! There is no luckier man, I wager!”

Baelon’s head whips backwards, taking in the uncharacteristically meek Lord Corlys bowing to his King in gratitude, and then he moves back to level a look at his brother, who did not breathe a word of this to him, that traitor!

Except Aemon’s lips are pursed tightly. Jocelyn seems placid as ever, cooing over Rhaenys who beams in joy. Viserys was jolly and Daemon bored, and so once the initial surprise wears off, Baelon can only sigh in resignation in acceptance of this new development. The succession could have been simple, but of course now it was not, and there was nothing he could do about it.

He congratulates Rhaenys with a kiss on each cheek, urging his sons to do the same, and groans within himself. He thought he was busy before, but with a royal wedding in the cards?

Baelon will not have any rest for moons to come, he already knows.

* * *

The Feast Day of Our Father Above is barely done with, the inns still flooded with patrons resting off their hangovers, when planning for the grand wedding of Rhaenys and Corlys begins. 

The date was set, and the ravens sent first, which was the least of their upcoming tasks. 

The bright news is that Queen Alysanne has returned. Maegelle returned with her, serene and content when she told Baelon and Aemon of how she convinced their parents to reconcile, even when Baelon and Aemon had failed to.

“Seven blessings, sister,” Baelon had praised her, laughing genuinely.

“Seven blessings, brother,” she said when she departed, informing them that she had duties to attend in Oldtown and that she could not take any further leave. It was with great regret that she would not attend the wedding, and they were most sorry to see her go.

Nonetheless, planning went forth at the pace of a Dornish sand steed, and Baelon found himself swept up in it. He supposes this was Lord Corlys’s secret—he was wooing Rhaenys directly under their noses, Baelon thinks bitterly, gathering his things to meet with a host of young men who were applying for positions in the escorts of their myriad of guests. With so much wealth flowing into King’s Landing, security needed to be tightened.

“I’ll protect our family, Father!” Daemon declares, whacking at Viserys with his wooden sword. Baelon observes his footwork, and finds himself impressed. It seems everything Daemon lacked in bookishness, he made up for in martial potential.

“One day you just might,” Baelon muses, smiling wide when Viserys picked up some driftwood and met Daemon’s challenges. Viserys did not have the easy grace that scrappy Daemon did, but at his thirteen to Daemon’s nine, he was bigger and stronger.

Watching them play together almost brought tears to his eyes. _Maybe I am not doing such a bad job with them. Look upon us, Alyssa, we have moments of happiness all to ourselves._

Would that they could share these moments with her instead.

Baelon finishes his interviews with the young prospects, and laughs incredulously when he is alone once more. None of them had a single fig of potential, and he had brought out Dark Sister just for amusement. He could have simply used his hands for all the skill it took to disarm them. Daemon and his tourney sword might be the only option, at this rate.

He makes his way to the Tower of the Hand, ready to relay the newest information to Aemon, and also to participate in a fantastic round of complaining together. In a way, this wedding had brought them closer than one between Rhaenys and Viserys ever would, he thinks wryly, because now they have a common enemy.

“Busy?” he asks, entering without knocking and lifting himself one-handed to take a seat on Aemon’s desk.

Aemon snorts. “Is there a word for that, but ten times over?”

“Ah yes, I believe the term for that would be _utterly fucked._ ”

“Then that’s what I am,” Aemon agrees solemnly, looking over his shoulder and meeting Baelon’s gaze with an exasperated expression. Aemon had the patience of The Smith for performing tasks, but little patience for dealing with people. Constant meetings discomfited him, and Baelon tried to take as much as he could onto his own plate for the sake of their future King. 

He looks older, Baelon thinks. Tired.

Aemon turns back to the board in front of him, and Baelon approaches to look upon it as well.

“Yes, you are quite fucked,” he jokes when he sees that it is the seating chart Aemon is working on. This simple chart could make or break relationships with assorted Houses for a generation, and he chuckles as he searches for who is seated at the tables farthest from where the newlyweds will be.

When his eyes make their way to the tables closest to the newlyweds, however, the smile leaves his face.

“Gods, is that all House Targaryen commands these days? A single table, half-full with Baratheons?”

Aemon looks contemplatively at the chart, yawning as he shuffles around all the letters beneath them, before coming up with a stack.

“Septa Maegelle does her duties, Archmaester Vaegon is the seneschal of the Citadel this year and cannot leave his post, cousin Rhaella has broken her foot and recovers in bed, Saera did not respond to the invitation Mother thinks she sent in secret, Lord Rodrik names the travelling conditions out of the Eyrie too dangerous for delicate Aemma…” he trails off, handing Baelon the bunch of rejection letters. Baelon peruses them.

“Does Rhaenys mind terribly?” he asks, curious.

Aemon shrugs. “Not much, she tells me. The only one she will truly miss is our sister Viserra, as you can imagine.”

Baelon looks up sharply. “Viserra will not come?” That is news to him. 

Aemon shakes his head, nodding down at the letter pile. Baelon flips through the papers in his hands until he finds the one with the broken mermaid seal of House Manderly on it. 

_Brother Aemon,_

_My health is without issue, as I hope yours to be as well._

_We thank you for your kind invitation. Many felicitations to my niece Rhaenys. It was joyous to hear of her betrothal, and I pray that the match be suitable in every manner, as it can only be when two lovers choose one another._

_Regretfully, Lord Theomore and I will not be in attendance. Winter is long and difficult. and the expense of such a trip cannot be borne by the House Manderly at a time when many in the North are starving. Nonetheless, I am well aware that a wedding without certain members of the family present, or indeed any at all, might still be a pleasant affair. Thus I am sure this wedding will be most splendid._

_Many blessings,  
Viserra_

Baelon frowns. 

When he looks up, Aemon is watching him. 

“She is still upset,” he offers, a bit uncomfortable with Aemon’s searching gaze.

“Did you expect otherwise?” Baelon doesn’t know how to answer that. He supposes he didn’t truly think about it, merely assumed that the family would rise above petty squabbling and gather together for such an occasion. It might be Viserra is not lying about the prohibitive cost, but Baelon highly doubts that given the immense wealth of the port city.

She does not want to come. She was as stubborn as their parents. Nonetheless, Baelon feels a strange urge to swallow some lump in his throat. He did not like to think that in the two years that have passed, Viserra has found no happiness—even if she did not love her husband, Baelon hopes he is at least good to her, and spares some expenses on her behalf. She always enjoyed having new trinkets, he recalls. Or maybe that was Saera.

“One table it must be then,” Baelon says somberly, setting the letters back down.

“Quite so, brother,” Aemon agrees, discomfort clear.

* * *

Preparing for the wedding was a family affair. So was getting dressed in all their finery the morning of, and both Daemon and Viserys were with him as they all donned the clothing tailored to them for this very event.

“Daemon!” Baelon reprimands sharply, when he walks into the antechamber searching for his missing golden earring, and finds a still shirtless Daemon uncorking the flagon of firewine with great curiosity.

“I was only smelling it,” Daemon insists, popping the stopper back in and jumping down from the chair he stood on, “old men are always smelling wine, I wanted to try.”

Baelon levels a disappointed parental look at Viserys, who just shrugs as he pulls on his socks. “He was only smelling it, Father. I would have stopped him if he tried to drink it.”

“I’m sure you would have,” Baelon grumbles, not entirely convinced, moving the flagon to a higher shelf that only a man of his height or taller could reach. “Wine is smelled to see the notes of flavors at each layer, Daemon. It takes years to train one’s nose to good wine.”

“Then it is good I start soon,” Baelon youngest puffs out his chest. _He already thinks himself a man._ Baelon leans down to kiss his forehead, partly out of affection, partly to show him he is not a man quite yet. Men did not receive forehead kisses from their Papa.

“Come dress,” he urges his skinny little boy on, and Daemon pouts while he fastens his gold tunic with embroidered red and black stitching in lines down it. Baelon looks pointedly at the crystal-coated vest of spun and dyed wool lying on the bench behind him, and Daemon moans dramatically while putting it on.

“It itches,” he complains.

“Tough luck,” Viserys grins. His own doublet was made of similar colours, and he wore a fine silk shirt beneath it, complete with a chain and a dragon shaped token at the end that Baelon had commissioned for his last birthday. His eldest looks regal and handsome, Baelon thinks approvingly. 

Viserys was growing into a fine young man. Baelon was proud of him, and looked forward to the day that Viserys would finally make his way into the Dragonpit to claim a mount for his own—no son of Alyssa would ever fail to be a dragonrider, he hopes. Thus far Viserys had not shown much initiative or interest in claiming his ancestral right, content to take flights with his Father, but he was getting a bit old for that now.

Otherwise, he was a studious and pleasant boy, smiling and kind with all, generous and charming by nature. Had Rhaenys married him, Baelon believes they would balanced one another out, mixing Rhaenys’s unyielding and independent personality that demanded respect with Viserys’s good and cheerful one that welcomed friendship. 

Alas, it was not to be, and the Sea Snake had proved himself a snake in more ways than one when he seduced young Rhaenys right under their roof, while holding titles that honored him granted by King Jaehaerys. Baelon found himself liking the man no more than before he became betrothed to Baelon's niece.

Conversely to Viserys, though, Daemon did not have the issue of avoiding the Dragonpit—in fact Baelon thought him far too eager to get there. If Baelon was Vhagar’s rider, Daemon was a close second, constantly needling his father to take him in the air and allow him to hold the reins. Vhagar, for all her ferocity in battle, molded easily to rider’s wills, although she would not allow Daemon to mount her on his own (and he had tried more than once. Baelon thought his heart would fall out of his chest when he turned and saw Daemon attempting to scramble up her saddle, only for her to shake him off as if he was a mere mosquito.)

“Don’t my sons look handsome,” Baelon compliments, bending to squat and ushering them both forward towards him when the belts were all snapped shut and the boots all laced up. “But there is one thing missing!”

“What would that be, Father?” Viserys asks, looking genuinely interested. Daemon is pouting, scratching at where the vest touches his neck.

Baelon stood and withdrew a box from beneath a hidden drawer in his private desk. He blew the dust off the cover and opened it to the wide eyes of his boys, revealing two necklaces within.

“Your mother’s marriage rings,” he tells them, reverence in his voice, “I put them on chains for the two of you, so you might carry them close to your heart wherever you go.”

Fifteen years ago, he had put those rings on Alyssa, during their grand wedding that top place atop Visenya’s Hill. The bells of King’s Landing rang all out of unison, the mismatched din nearly deafening, the sun shining bright and flowers being thrown in the air as the two of them galloped down the hill side by side afterwards. It was the happiest day of his life. Now, he passes those rings down to their sons, Alyssa’s pride, for they were only gathering dust in his care. He could not bear to look at them for long, much less feel them against his skin every moment of the day.

Missing Alyssa was forever his sweet agony. 

When the necklaces are fixed around their necks, Viserys thanks him kindly, while Daemon looks wondrously at the ring lying in his hands. He tucks it into his shirt, looking oddly contemplative, and then turns his awe-inspiring lilac eyes onto Baelon. A light sheen of water covers them, and when Baelon moves to embrace him, he feels a gentle tear stream from Daemon’s face.

Naturally every evidence of crying was gone by the time he pulls back. Even as a nine year old, Daemon hates to be seen upset. Baelon was much the same in his youth, and perhaps he still is.

They flank him as they make their way to the ceremony, entering third behind Jaehaerys and Alysanne, then Aemon and Jocelyn in the procession. The eyes of all the nobles gathered trail behind him, and Baelon did his best to remain regal as he bent awkwardly to hold Daemon’s hand as he walked. Luckily, Rhaenys arrived on Meleys, and eyes did not remain on his for very long when the shadow of the beast flew above them.

Lord Corlys was dressed in exotic materials brought from his infamous voyages all around the known world, symbols of his wealth and status, and he looked absolutely pleased with his lot in life. When Rhaenys came to him, accompanied by Aemon on one side and Jocelyn on the other, Corlys did not bow to her. He would be her husband now, her equal. Not quite a prince, but as good as in the eyes of the Realm.

The ceremony was short enough, thankfully, and Baelon left Viserys and Daemon in his parent’s care as made his way back to the Keep quickly so that he could assist in the last minute set-up for the feast. He checks on his gift as well, the double saddle for Meleys that Alyssa had used after their children were born, all cleaned and made anew for Rhaenys and any children she may have. He’d also had some additional fineries added to it, small notes of the Velaryon colours as accents.

There was a tome he had for her as well, speaking on the maritime trade relationships with the Free Cities. If Rhaenys and Corlys ever lived on Driftmark, it would be good for her to know something about the topic. And she would not learn it from Small Council meetings, for she did not often attend those, preferring to work with Queen Alysanne on her tasks than with a group of stuffy old men on theirs.

“And the pigeon pie is ready?” he asks a cook, who gives him a flat glare for this thirtieth question he is asking her. 

“An’ the pigeon pie is ready, yer Grace,” she answers.

“Good, good,” he replies sheepishly, nodding and making his way from the kitchen.

Baelon did not consider himself to be very close to Rhaenys on a personal level, but he was still fond of her, and felt she deserved to have a pleasant wedding day, despite him having little love for her groom. His family was the most important thing in his life. He would do anything on behalf of House Targaryen, and a hundred-course wedding feast fell well within that category of 'anything'.

Daemon and Viserys are already present in the Great Hall when Baelon enters, and Daemon’s vest is hanging unbuttoned from him, as Baelon knew it would be. He is just relieved it is still upon Daemon's shoulders at all.

Standing next to the two princelings were a gaggle of young maidens, some there in an attempt to catch the eye of Viserys. 

Some of them were there for him, though, and Baelon cringes. He despises this part of the circus that was public feasts.

“My Prince,” they all demure when he arrives at his childrens’ side, fluttering their fans and throwing their hair over their shoulders. He smiles tightly.

“Fair day, my ladies. I pray you enjoy the festivities.”

“We would enjoy it more if our gallant prince would agree to dancing,” a particularly brave girl answers his rhetorical question.

“Do you hear that Viserys, a lady wishes to dance with you!” he feigns misunderstanding, and the woman pouts when Viserys courteously requests her hand for a turn on the dancefloor. She goes nonetheless, much too old to be considered for Viserys but accepting the honor that it was to dance with a prince, even if it was not the prince she wished for.

Baelon feels a brief moment of guilt for using his son as a shield, but when he sees the joy on Viserys’s face as they prance about, that evaporates quickly.

He excuses himself, leaving Daemon to preen and flex his nonexistent muscles in front of his female audience. It brought a smile to his face to see his spirited son enjoy himself like this, and when Baelon could tear his amused eyes away, he started some useless questioning of a serving girl just to appear busy. 

He could make his way over to the royal table, but this wedding was proving more difficult to handle than he realized it would be, dredging up thoughts of his own in this very place. 

_Am I still a husband?_ he wonders to himself. _I do everything a husband should, I am faithful and I honor my wife at all times, keeping her safe in my heart and doing what I believe would please her. Only she is not by my side._

He turns the thought around in his mind for a few turns, only to be jolted out of it when a woman approaches him. Her hips sway with purpose as she approaches, and he curses to himself.

“Prince Baelon,” she murmurs sultrily, curtsying and giving him an ample view of how the tops of her breasts wobble in her barely restraining gown. She looked up beneath her thick eyelashes and winked when she saw his eyes trailing down her exposed shoulder. Baelon pinches himself for being caught unawares this way. 

“My lady Lannister,” he bows.

Lady Lannister’s smile was coy, as intricate as her complex hairstyle surely was. “Gwyn, surely.”

He forces a pleasant face. “Lady Gwyn.”

He danced with her when she came to Court first, a Lannisport-branch Lannister cousin of Casterly Rock’s Lord Tymond. His cousin and his mistress, some said, which Baelon thought deeply humorous. All over Westeros his family was cursed for their practice of incest, but at least his sister had been his wife. Lord Lannister fucked his family on the wrong side of the sheets, without any honor or care for reputation. Still, she was a remarkably beautiful woman. There were many remarkably beautiful women about of course, of all ages and shapes and sizes, but none of them had what Lady Gwyn had…

She had these eyes, these green eyes. Precisely the same shade as Alyssa’s left pupil had been. Baelon had felt like a dog on a leash when he first noticed them, entranced and barely hearing a word that came out of her mouth as he stared at her face. It would be easy, _so easy,_ to reach out and touch her, card his hands through golden hair that would suffice in dim light, turn her side face so the illusion wasn’t shattered, trace his hand down her slender frame until it was low enough to make its way up her skirts. Baelon did not like to presume a woman's actions, but if were to guess he thinks she would likely allow his attentions. It would make him a monster, but he could have her.

Baelon did nothing of the sort. But he did dance with her, just for a chance to look into those eyes. 

And then a moon later she became one of Gael’s companion, and later on she was one of the women charged with looking after the children, and one day Baelon had come to the garden during some unexpected free time and overheard her asking Viserys if it wouldn't be grand to have a mother again, someone to keep his father well pleased?

Viserys and Daemon didn’t need a mother, he raged at Aemon when he told him of the incident, and Aemon chastised him for ever flirting with her. Baelon took that in stride, for Aemon was correct on that front, but his stance remained. He never looked her way again, although she constantly sought out his company. Baelon had to give her credit, however, for she’d gotten farther than any other woman—besides Viserra of course, who had made it all the way to his bed, naked.

_If I thought it necessary to give Daemon and Viserys a mother after Alyssa, I would have just married Viserra. At least her love for them was genuine, not like these sharks. But my sons already have a mother, and I no desire for a wife._

“It is quite a beautiful evening. We have you to thank for it, I believe, my Prince,” Gwyn Lannister brought him out of his musings, laying a slim hand on his crossed forearms.

“Not at all,” he tells her, slipping from her grasp as soon as he can, “it is merely what my niece deserves.”

“Yes, she does deserve good things,” Lady Gwyn says, stressing her last words. You deserve good things too, is what she was implying. Good things such as my bed. And she deserved good things, such as a crown and silver-haired Targaryen babes.

“Might we dance, Prince Baelon? You were a most accommodating partner when I first came to court, and I find no other of these men to have the grace you had. The grace of a peerless warrior, I presume.”

“You flatter me, my lady. I fear I must decline your generous offer, for my family awaits me now.” He bows away from her before she can protest, turning and walking away hurriedly. His attraction to her made him uncomfortable, even more so knowing it was not truly her, merely the shade of what she could be if he drank heavily and squinted at her. 

He made his way to his parents side as a safety measure, and they greeted him warmly, their hands intertwined. What magic Maegelle had made, Baelon thinks. Just moons ago they could not stand to be in the same city as one another.

“Mother, Father, do you fare well?” he asks, gesturing for some brandy and a plate to be brought to him.

“How could we fare when our beloved grandchild has found the happiness we have always prayed that she would? Of course we fare well, better than ever,” Jaehaerys replies, a soft and satisfied grin on his face. 

It was good to see him smile. Them both.

Some Baratheon beside him struck up conversation, and Baelon put on his courtly graces to welcome the man to King’s Landing and inquired if he did not need anything. Normally he wouldn’t have to do such things at his family’s own table, but with only a handful of Targaryens present, it was unavoidable. Nonetheless he searches for an escape when it all gets suffocating.

“It is so different from when we were youths,” he muses with Jocelyn when they both escape for a moment of calm, scanning around the hall. She looks at him with that unsettlingly calm face of hers, questioning his meaning.

“Well there were so many of us before, were there not?” he clarifies, and she laughs lightly, launching them into reminiscing. A table full of his parents, Baelon and Aemon and Jocelyn and Alyssa, Maegelle humming to herself in her own world, Vaegon and Daella arguing, Saera angling for Father’s attention, Viserra wielding her silverware with grace even when she was a babe, Gael an infant alongside his and Aemon’s children.

 _Dead, gone, gone, dead, gone, and gone._ Those were the fates of six of them.

“Was some of it our doing?” he wonders aloud.

“How do you mean, brother?” Jocelyn hums. She used to call him nephew, at first, but years into her marriage, she finally names him brother.

“I mean, were we too greedy? Did we occupy too much space, that the younger ones could never find a foothold of their own?”

“I wonder,” Jocelyn says cryptically, before gasping and becoming distracted by another guest who she must go and greet. 

Baelon smiled ruefully, and went to find his children to check on them, dodging women and knights as he went, all of whom sought his ear for some matter or the other. When he found Viserys, the boy was playing some board game with a young squire, a large bowl of cream pastries nearby them and Daemon on the floor beside him playing at dice with some young girl in a fine dress that had rips up both sides. Two and a half decades ago, that could have been him. He merely observes for a time, enjoying his private view of their innocent play as he leaned against a wall.

He drank in his surrounding, the cavorting of ladies and lords, magisters and princes hailing from a continent over, all the food and wine that flowed throughout the hall. It brings a bittersweet nostalgia to him. This is how he remembers the Court he grew up in, not underneath the dark shade that had loomed over them all for the past few years.

“Prince Baelon,” a familiar voice comes to his side, and he greets Lady Florence Tyrell with sincere warmth when she comes into his view. The wife of the Master of Coin, or more accurately, the Master of Coin herself, had become unexpectedly important in Baelon’s life when the wedding planning began, for considerable coin was needed to finance it all. They’d worked closely together, and Baelon found he enjoyed her sharp wit immensely. He offered her the dance other women coveted, and she took his hand easily enough.

“A great success, this day has been,” she tells him, “and a stupendous gift you bestowed upon our Princess.”

“It is largely your doing, Lady Tyrell,” Baelon laughs, and thanks her for the compliment.

“It is always delightful to see two young people in love, is it not?” she sighs, the striking woman appearing pleased as punch.

“Oh, the most delightful thing there is, my Mistress of Coin.”

She gives him a reproachful look for naming her such, and Baelon gives her a good natured wink. She was skilled at her work, and even through the harsh winter conditions of the past years, the King's coffers still overflowed under her guidance. They all thought the former Master of Coin Lord Rego Draz irreplaceable, and he was, but she had made her post all her own. Baelon respected her greatly.

“I will leave my post for a few moons, soon,” she informs him, the same look of satisfaction gracing her face.

“Will you visit your home?” he asks, for Lady Tyrell née Fossoway did not often travel to Cider Hall. Lord Tyrell took many trips to Highgarden, as he was Lord, but with his sons now grown even he remained in King’s Landing for the most part.

“No, I am headed Northwards,” she says, intriguing him, “my niece Delena, who serves your Princess sister, is to be wed. To some Lord Robyn Woolfield of a place called Ramsgate, which I confess I had not heard of.”

“Does she now? My congratulations on the match. Ramsgate is a smaller house, I believe, but quite wealthy in sheep and sow.”

“Many thanks, my Prince. She made the match herself, she says, smart girl. He is of an age with her as well, which is good. This new fashion of maids marrying men old enough to be their fathers is quite distasteful to me, to tell you true.”

Baelon can barely contain his gruff laugh at her joke. He shouldn’t be seen finding her comment amusing, but he has never been much good at playing the proper prince.

“Did my sister Princess Viserra not assist in your niece's match?” he finds himself asking. His only interaction with Lady Delena Fossoway was during his interrogation of her so many years ago, but she seemed close enough to Viserra’s heart then.

“Oh, Delena reports that the Princess thought she might do a great deal better,” Lady Tyrell answers, her raised brows indicating she agrees with that, “but yes, the Princess did negotiate the terms, and I find them quite favorable if I do say so. The Princess and some Manderly together made the negotiations, Devin or David or whatever other Northern name. But Delena says it was not difficult to squeeze his pockets dry, for the groom is madly in love.”

“As a groom should be,” Baelon ruminates quietly, a sad smile gracing his face. _The groom is madly in love._ He remembers the feeling well.

After Lady Tyrell departs from his arms Baelon resolves to take his leave soon, and so he does not lurk long after the bedding is done and over with. He deposits his sons back in their rooms, separate but still neighbors to one another, calling for baths for both of them to be brought in the morning.

“Goodnight, Father,” they chorus in unison, and receive forehead kisses for their efforts. Daemon makes a face.

* * *

Baelon calls a bath for himself as well, to be prepared immediately, and soaks in the steaming water alongside a glass of the wine Dameon had tried to get into earlier in the day. 

He washes his hair just to have something to do, and to have a reason to linger longer in the water. His mind goes over the events of the day, this joyous day, and his conversation with Jocelyn earlier.

 _I wonder,_ she had said. So did he. Wondering was all he could do, lately.

He never sits well with guilt, although it seems to be his lot, because Baelon is a man of _action._ There is a reason he is a skilled warrior, and it is not just for the chivalry of it all—he enjoys fighting, doing, rendering with his hands. 

The estrangement of his family, partially healed now that his parents are together once more, was a heavy weight, and he was not carrying it gracefully. Although clear fault could be found in the actions of his parents and his siblings, Baelon wondered if he too had not had a role in it. With Vaegon, there was no question that he did not act at his best. He should have been more lenient on the boy, should never had played that trick Alyssa cooked up, righteous as she was in her anger over his treatment of Daella. Nonetheless, Vaegon had not deserved that, and he was gone soon after. Baelon has not spoken to him in ages. Maegelle, he was never the closest to her, but he resolves to write her more often, just so they can have some sibling-like communications now and then.

It wasn’t just him, though. Gaemon and Valerion had played a role in it, the loss of their children...his parents were never truly the same after that. He thought his mother to be hurt when Daenerys left them behind, as they all were, but it felt like with each child that followed, the King and Queen were holding their breath to see what would happen. Jaehaerys had been cured with Saera—he took so much joy in the girl, and she took all that away when she left. 

Alysanne, on the other hand, had never truly recovered. When Gaemon and Valerion passed, it only confirmed what she already believed, and then she lost Alyssa and Daella as well, both to the same scourge. 

_At least Saera and Viserra were alive,_ he thinks darkly, not able to deny that some anger and resentment rises up inside of him at the thought of his wayward sisters. They are alive, and they had been given all the comforts a Princess could want, and still they were haughty and proud, looking down upon their parents with such contempt and causing suffering where there were already canyons of mourning and self-doubt…

He can’t hold it against them entirely, though, as he sags against the edge of the bath. They were still human. His sisters were as different as night and day, but they both long desired love and freedom. He could understand Viserra much more than he ever would Saera, but he empathized with both of them somewhat. It didn’t excuse their actions, but it did begin to explain them.

His eyes begin to feel like stone bricks, and he hauls himself out of the tub, lounging naked in front of the roaring hearth to dry himself off. 

The wine and the water have put a slow, relaxed feeling into his muscles, and he lies on the throw pillows in front of the hearth just to enjoy the silky feeling of the bath oils settling into his skin. One pleasure turns to another in his languid mind, the type of feeling that comes to him after nights such as these, where an evening spent drinking and dancing naturally morphed into hours of fucking. If Alyssa were here, they might have made love in the bath just now, but instead it is his own hand that grips his cock, lazy flicks of his wrist sending shudders down his spine. He conjures up an image of his wife laughing, peaking, arching her body, and sends his other hand to grip his balls and urge himself forward. He _misses_ good sex, his favorite indulgence in life, and he cannot help the moan that falls from his wine-stained lips as he feels himself coming closer to an end.

Only just before his climax, the fantasy of Alyssa turned rapidly into a vision of those same green eyes, but in the Lannister woman instead, a visceral image appearing of her sitting astride him naked, the way Viserra had the one time as she coyly cupped her breasts for him—he groans in frustration, throwing his eyes open even as his hand remains moving and trying to return to the sweet bliss of mere moments ago, tries to think of someone else, anyone else.

He peaks just then, hardly taking any pleasure from it at all. He slumps backwards, catching his breath, feeling dizzy from the wine and the release and the panic, utterly disappointed in the ruined moment. He cleans the seed from his hands dutifully and collapses face first into bed, beyond ready to put this entire day behind him.

When Baelon finally sleeps, he is blessed to have no dreams.


	6. with this kiss i pledge my love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The welcomed season of spring melts more than just the Northern snows. Over the course of two weddings, tensions between Lord Desmond and Princess Viserra come to a confusing head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops took longer than expected to write this, but time 2 start kicking things off for my girl viserra with a 12k chapter

**White Harbor, 91 AC**

**Princess Viserra, Lady of White Harbor**

It was a year before the wedding of Viserra’s most beloved friend could take place, and by the time the ceremony approached, the weather was warm enough to allow flowers outside of the greenhouse to bloom freely. _Spring_ was upon them, the promise of respite from cold glorious, the upcoming nuptials of Delena exciting, and truth be told, Viserra was in a better mood generally these days. Her recently-passed nineteenth nameday had included a lavish picnic atop Seal Rock, and she had found it within herself to race her horse Beauty against Desmond and Faline atop his stallion on her way there. 

She had not ridden so fast since that fateful night in King’s Landing. The wind flying by her had felt better than she remembered.

In these days of warmth and revelry, everything appeared slightly brighter, and many exotic traders came to White Harbor with fanciful goods that Viserra insisted on acquiring as wedding gifts for Delena, with some for herself as well of course. Then, she had local women do her tailoring and stitching so that they would share in the coin from her purchases.

And now, the days were finally upon them to ride to Ramsgate and deliver Delena into the arms of her unlikely beau—Viserra still could not quite believe the groom in question—and Lord and Lady Tyrell were present to accompany them on their way. Young Desmond would escort them, and from there only he and Viserra would depart for Widow’s Watch, for his own wedding to that boisterous girl Minerva Flint.

Viserra had met her twice now and remained unimpressed. _The girl who will inherit my title as Lady of White Harbor._ Laughable! Despite knowing well and good that she was a princess, of the dragon and above this place, Viserra did take her duties seriously. White Harbor shone like the sun under her hand, and she was generous as a dream with the Northern women.

She still had not been to Winterfell, however. She had written her mother Queen Alysanne so in her latest letter home, when the woman had inquired if Viserra had not visited yet, and was it not the most magical place? Viserra wrote it blandly, no longer having the same fire of anger she once had. After receiving the invitation to the wedding of little Rhaenys, by all accounts a love match, for even a complete buffoon could see the family wished for Viserys and Rhaenys to wed, Viserra found she could not muster the energy any longer to hate her mother so ferociously. If Alysanne had forgotten her, fine, she would forget her as well. No love, no hate, nothing.

The peak of her ire had come not long before, when a letter from the steward of King Jaehaerys went to her husband Theomore. There were bare questions regarding the status of White Harbor, some token words of esteem, and then the information of his upcoming progress towards the Twins upon the Neck.

“If it please you, pass this missive along to your wife, my daughter, the Princess Viserra, as well—we pray for her good health and that your union is soon blessed with the fruits of matrimony.”

 _Fuck him._ He wanted to badly for Viserra to fall pregnant still, she fumed to her ladies' for hours. He wanted to see her humbled in that manner, to be chained to the old man he sold her to forever. Luckily Lord Theomore had caught a chill recently and his cock did not work as well as it once had. Viserra prayed she never quickened with Theomore’s babe, not because she disliked children, but rather to spite King Jaehaerys. In truth, Viserra did at times enjoy having the children of other women about, their sweet sticky hands and giggles as they chased one another about. Spring was a beautiful time for babies.

“My lord, do you fare any better?” Viserra came to Theomore as he concluded some meetings for the day. A blanket swallowed her husband, an enormous thing of wool, but still the man beneath was shivering. Steaming pots of tea came and went like ravens from his side, his greatest comfort.

Viserra was becoming impatient. The longer they tarried on Theomore’s behalf, the longer Delena had to wait to be married…

“I fear not, beloved,” Theomore answered, face red after a large sneeze shook him mightily. “But I have news for you nonetheless.”

“Yes, lord husband?” she asks, coming closer at his urging.

“I have spoken with Desmond, and we have come to a decision regarding the upcoming nuptials.” Desmond was standing on the other side of the room to avoid catching his grandfather’s illness, and Viserra made brief eye contact with him. There was no heat in her stare—they had not fought since the evening when they came upon Faline weeping. He had been on his best behaviour this past year, halfway to courteous; a small blessing.

“We have decided that, as close as your lady is to our hearts, I cannot delay her wedding any longer for my selfish reasons. Nay, sweet wife, you must go forth without me, and if the Gods are good I will find you in Widow’s Watch for my heir Desmond and Lady Minerva’s nuptials. I know this is a disappointment…”

He drones on but Viserra is no longer listening, fighting to keep her smile away. _A fortnight without him!_ she thinks happily, and does a whole show of sympathy for her husband, wrapping the blanket tighter around him and fetching him another cup of tea with her own hands. 

“Of course, husband, you must rest well. My lady Delena will understand, as do I! I pray you will be present for your grandchild’s wedding, and if not, you will be greatly missed.”

He wraps his hands around hers, adoration in his sunken, cloudy blue eyes. Thankfully she wears her gloves, and the serpent within her only huffs in annoyance. His kiss is slimy as always, but she is well used to it by now.

Theomore dismisses her and Lord Desmond for good measure, deciding to take his rest now and having a manservant assist him in walking. Gods, he was getting old. Perhaps he would even die soon.

“When will we go, then?” she asks, walking side by side with Desmond as they made their way to their respective chambers. He looks surprised to hear her voice, as if he was a thousand leagues away in his mind.

“Depends on our party. As soon as two days from now if all is well, no more than a week I’d wager. We shouldn’t tarry, for the guests will begin riding out soon.” 

“I am prepared, there is no delay from me,” she insists, and he seems entertained. The fog that hung over him has disappeared now.

“Of course, that is well. Have you stayed in an inn before, princess?”

She frowns. “No, is it much different than a tavern?” She _would_ have stayed in one if Jaehaerys or Alysanne had ever taken her on one of their progresses. Evern Saera had gone before, but not Viserra… in fairness there had been no progresses in the years following Saera’s scandal, at least not before she departed for the North.

He shrugs. “Not much, except you have to sleep there.”

“Does Lord Woolfield not make the ride between this castle and his without stopping?” she wonders, vaguely recalling that piece of information. If an inn was so uncomfortable perhaps it could be avoided…

“Aye, because Robyn has the instincts of a bat. Riding all his life along Sheepshead Hills have made him a master horseman, such that even pesky things such as lack of light do not bother him. For our party, it would not be possible, and besides, the way to Widow’s Watch will certainly require us to remain somewhere for a night. So two or three nights going, and two nights returning, at least four in total.”

“Alright,” Viserra agrees. “I like riding well enough.”

“You will have to keep your packing light,” he warns her.

“Fine, I will leave your wedding gift behind,” she huffs, and he scoffs doubtfully. She pouts. “I am being quite serious, Ser. I will present your lady with her gift when we arrive back. Or will that insult her?”

He gives her a look she knows to be conniving. “Depends, what is the gift?”

She snorts and turns to walk away. “Goodbye, Lord Desmond.”

“You can’t blame me for being curious, princess!” he calls down the hall after her in his typical boyish manner, his laughter echoing off the stone walls. For some strange reason, she finds herself smiling.

* * *

The ride towards Ramsgate was pure, absolute wilderness. There was an embarrassment of a road, not the kingsroad, and even that only from common traversing, not any sort of paved pathway. Still, Viserra had no cause to complain, not with Lady Tyrell’s wicked humour accompanying them. Delena was exuberant to have her aunt with her, the only family she could stand. Delena had a handful of half brothers, a pair of twins her elders and the others her junior, and cared not for any of them. Her father...Viserra never asked. 

Some things went without saying.

They arrive at the inn after a day’s hard ride, Beauty sweating and whinnying beneath Viserra’s body as she galloped to her heart’s content. She fed the horse with her own bare hand in affection, and Beauty nuzzled her large wet nose against Viserra’s hooded figure. 

“Bread, cheese, and ale for all!” Lord Martyn, Lady Florence’s Tyrell husband, announced joyfully to the entire population of the place, which led to a great roar of approval and an invigorated song being sung by the players at one corner of the room.

“And soup for our table,” Lady Florence added, more quietly, to the serving boy. 

They feasted on the common food, and Viserra wondered if she had ever had such a delicious meal in her life. Her stomach begged for more, and she ate with her hands as they all did, each bite better than the last after a day of hard riding.

“The fare of the Gods,” Viserra moans around a mouthful of garlic bread soaked in spiced pumpkin and celery.

“Very humble gods you keep, princess,” Lord Desmond huffs as he drops into the empty seat beside her. She steals his cup of ale and washes out her mouth with an elegant gulp, keeping her graces about her even in place like this. He pulls her braid in retaliation before throwing two keys on the table in front of them all.

“Two rooms is all they can spare, I fear. If the Lord and Lady Tyrell prefer privacy, I do not mind kipping with the others outside for a night—”

“Nonsense!” Lady Florence declares, absolute. “The ladies will sleep together and the men as well. How many beds?”

“Two smalls in one, one large in the other.”

“The ladies will take the large, then. Which key?”

“This one,” Desmond points to the appropriate key, which was promptly scooped up by Delena, who announced that she would retire for the evening. Before she left, Desmond told them all that the innkeeper believed the following day would have rain in the morning, but it would subside quickly.

Viserra enjoys the flickering firelight of the tavern, the drunk singers and lute players, and, unwilling to leave just yet, promises Delena she will join her shortly. Lord and Lady Tyrell seem to share a similar feeling, and they stay as well, chatting amiably amongst themselves in the gentle shade of the evening.

Eventually, they departed as well, leaving Viserra with only Desmond for company. She suspects he only stays to ensure she is not alone, and that he would have liked to go to bed as well. But Viserra had never stayed in an inn before, and she found a peculiar joy in watching the various people, many of whom stare right back at her. Men, naturally, as always. Viserra does not dwell on them.

“I see you are taking to staying in an inn well,” he remarks, stealing back his cup and filling it with drink for himself. “His and Her Grace, your parents, are also said to have great love for spending nights in inns during their many travels. I admit I was surprised that you had not stayed in one before.”

Viserra deflates a bit, but the pleasant pulsing of the drink prevents her from storming off in distress. She only hums, turning to him and changing the subject.

“This is strange, is it not?”

“What is?”

“Delena marrying Lord Woolfield. I still cannot quite believe it.”

He gives her a strange look. “Is it? They chose one another. Surely you know your lady’s reasons for doing so.”

She ponders that, resting her chin in her hands and looking over the assorted dancing couples. They are clumsy in their movements but so confident in their simple affections, their magical touches and intimate caresses as they spun around. _I could never. It would make me itch._

“Was her former lover much different than Robyn, you think, that she did not wish to marry him?” Desmond asks, his shrewd eyes still upon her.

Viserra laughs, actually laughs, an undignified bark that makes her clap her hands over her mouth.

“ _Bartimos?_ Gods, the two are like the sun and the moon! Thank the Seven Heavens she is not marrying a man like that.” She thinks of the Celtigar boy, still a squire when Viserra had left him behind, sent back to Claw Isle for his role in her injury. “No, they are not at all alike...not at all.”

“How so?” he asks, seeming genuinely curious. She sees no harm in telling him.

“I do not know Lord Robyn well, but Bartimos was the most irksome man. He was quite clever and smart, undeniably, yet he preened around as if he were the grand septon himself! Proud, very, and not what one would call ugly, but he could be haughty. That, and sometimes cruel, for once he beat a peasant boy bloody in front of us when the boy insulted House Celtigar.” Viserra pauses. Had Bartimos really been so bad? She had liked him well enough, but from the outside he certainly commanded a host of flaws. “Well, he had his moments, I suppose. He was chivalrous enough and free with his coin, so we kept him around. I would have put sense in her head if I knew Delena entertained him as she did, though.”

Desmond nods, satisfied. “It seems odd she chose him to share her bed if he was so unfit for her hand. Better this way, though. She will be kept happy at Ramsgate.”

Viserra is struck with the urge to defend Delena, although his voice carried no judgement.

“Are you marrying the woman who made you a man, then?” As soon as she said it, she regretted it. It was a completely improper question, not one she would have ever thought of, much less spoken, sober.

His affronted face made her cheeks burn in embarrassment. This was what she got for trying to have a civil conversation.

“Little Minerva? I had my first woman before she even flowered!” he heatedly protests, and then clamps his own mouth shut, similarly embarrassed. 

“Just a whore, then,” she says dismissively, attempting to end the conversation.

“I did _not_ lay with a whore,” he insists, his reaction surprisingly intense, even closing his eyes and breathing deeply, “if you must know, she was some sailor who came to port for a time. Who I assuredly did not give any coin or favors to!”

“You seem quite averse to the idea of whores—”

“Because I am!” he announces slightly too loudly, then sinks back into his chair when a few stray looks from others came upon him. “Because I am, alright? I have never...paid a woman for such services. I would never.”

She felt a flash of shame at his obvious distress, and swallowed hard when his eyes remained downcast. The seconds ticked by, and her hands clenched. Finally, she decided to just apologize and take her leave as soon as she could. 

“I apologize, my Lord. I meant no offense. Many noble boys I grew up around were gifted whores upon reaching a certain age and continue to patronize them afterwards, I was not insulting you.”

He was still sulking, but at least he wasn’t staring at his own lap any longer. “Aye, I know such things are the norm. But not for me.”

A heavy silence descended upon them, the relaxed atmosphere disappearing entirely. Viserra tolerated it for a few more minutes, songs beginning and ending as the two of them assiduously did not look at each other. 

Viserra leaves a few coins on the table for the serving staff, bidding an eerily contemplative Desmond a good night. He only inclined his head at her when she left, and Viserra felt an odd sense of guilt lingering in her chest for his morose state.

* * *

In the room, Viserra disrobes from her riding clothes, laying them out on the floor and changing into a nightgown quietly, so as not to disturb either of the women already sleeping. She slips in on Delena’s side after washing, shivering despite the well-fed hearth and the warm night.

* * *

When she awoke next, it was still night, but the bed was much emptier than it had been before.

 _Delena was missing._

Viserra lays around for a time, visiting the privy and returning, sitting up in the bed and waiting for her dear friend’s return. When she does not return, and Viserra dons a cloak and her boots once more. If the girl was missing, then she would find Delena. Perhaps she ran away, and then Viserra would mount Beauty and go after her, both of them free and wild forevermore.

Alas, it was not so. At the end of the hallway was an open window, the night still and pleasant, and the presence of a candle illuminating the windowframe. 

Viserra clambers out, lifting herself easily from the chair that was situated directly beneath the open window, and finding Delena in the same sort of haphazard outfit as Viserra was wearing herself. She did not seem surprised to see her princess discover her, and moved to the side wordlessly.

There was another open window close by, but it led only into a dark room.

“Already having regrets?” she jokes, voice hoarse with sleep. “It is not too late to run, you know.”

Delena does laugh, quietly and mostly to herself as was her way. She stares out at the stars, twinkling and receding as the darkness of night engulfs them entirely.

“No regrets,” Delena finally speaks up, “just thinking.”

Viserra hums, lying down and stretching like a cat. The air around them feels like a blanket, settling on top of her comfortingly.

“I was thinking about King’s Landing,” Delena adds, which perks Viserra’s attention. 

“Terrible place,” Viserra says lightly, even as she yearned for it so strongly it brought the serpent within her roaring back into consciousness.

“Oh, the worst,” Delena agrees good-naturedly as always. “But also… it was special, in its ways. It was the first place I was ever free to be myself.”

Viserra cannot bring herself to agree. She was not free there. _But oh, to live in that gilded cage again, instead of within these bars of rusted iron._

“It gave me you,” Viserra adds, neutrally. If nothing else…

“Quite right.”

When words fade away once more, Viserra searches for something to lighten the mood, the heavy introspection weighing on them uneasily. “That Lord Desmond asked about Bartimos, earlier. If he was not similar to your Woolfield.” 

Delena scoffs at that, as Viserra knew she would. “They could not be more different.”

“Indeed, not at all. Is he who you think of now?” Viserra would not blame her. Old loves had their way of haunting someone, especially as Delena would take a new lover soon. She still thought of Baelon every time she touched the scar on her leg. His grave face was the only one she recalled from the night of her return.

“Not at all,” Delena says quietly. Viserra smiles sweetly, each blink growing longer as her eyelids grew heavy.

“It was Leon I thought of,” Delena admits quietly, so lowly she might not have meant for Viserra to hear it. Nonetheless, she did hear it, and her eyes flew open at the words. She even sat up.

“Leon? Lord Hayford?” she questioned, demanding to know.

Delena’s smile was self-deprecating, shy. “It was a secret I always kept.”

“He was your lover as well?” Viserra could not believe this. Delena was a never ending well of surprises, she thinks, somewhat bitter at having been kept in the dark.

“No. Just a man I loved. The first man I ever did.”

That was more acceptable than the alternative. Leon Hayford… Viserra had not thought of him in so long that she could barely bring his face to mind. Strong brow, weak beard, only just taller than her, prone to silence and good judgement. And in love with her, so plainly could it be seen on his face, the face a dozen men wore at any time in her childhood.

The more she leaned into the past, the more came to mind. Leon was the grandson of Maegor the Cruel’s last casualty, the Lord Hayford who had urged that tyrant, Viserra’s kin in a sense, to abdicate and lost his head for saying such a thing. As such, Leon’s family had been kept close to Jaehaerys to bring their loyalty back to him, and Leon was long a ward of the Crown. A hostage, to be sure, and he knew his place well.

“Yes, Leon was a good man,” is all Viserra can offer.

“He did love you most ardently.”

Viserra purses her lips. “He did not deserve to become involved in my schemes. I am glad it did him no ill in the end. He had always wanted to go home, I believe.”

“Yes,” Delena says faintly, “he always did.”

They watched the stars a bit longer.

“Is your Robyn similar to Leon, then? Is that why you agreed to wed him, even though his incomes are much beneath you?”

Delena opens her arms and Viserra joins her easily, cuddling together. _This is one of the last times we will do this._ She had granted Delena leave to remain in Ramsgate, relieved her of her duties. Some other replacements would be had, of course—but they were not Delena.

Tears sting at her eyes, but she does not allow them to fall. She hates showing weakness, even to her dearest companion.

“Robyn is not like Leon, mostly. He is so excitable. He is innocent as one with a status like Leon's could never be. He takes joy in small things, where Leon never seemed to find respite in anything at all. But in other ways they are quite alike. They are some of the kindest men I have ever met. They are gentle even when they need not be, and their strength is in their discipline. But that is not why I was thinking of Leon.”

“No?”

“No,” Delena sighs, “my lady aunt told me today that Leon is long wed to a distant cousin of his, and that a babe will be born to them soon if the Gods are good. It made me think of our youth together, and how it is all gone now.”

Viserra curls more tightly in Delena’s embrace. She knows that, of course, but at the same time her heart rebels against it. If they would all just go back to King’s Landing again, it would not be _precisely_ the same, but some parts of that idyll youth, a few of those violent delights could still be reclaimed, could they not? 

She didn’t dare ask Delena’s thoughts on that matter. She feared the pity she would receive in return.

“Robyn is a good man. He will treat me well, I suspect, even love me, and I will grow to love him. My betrothed often writes to me of the life we will have together, the family he wishes for, the sunrise rides across some nearby cliff in the neighboring hills. He loves describing that most of all, telling me of some place called the Stairway for the way it appears to climb into the sky. No matter how I try to imagine it, I cannot quite picture it. But now I will live it, princess. A life of all my own making. It’s what I always, _always_ wanted—to leave the past behind. To start anew.” Her voice cracks by the end, and they cling to one another desperately, a shared tide of emotion rising.

“It sounds like a beautiful place to watch the sun rise. I wish I could see it,” Viserra whispers instead, everything she can’t say in the tightness of her arms around Delena’s hips.

“One day you will, Princess. I am sure of it,” Delena promises.

* * *

The last two hours of their journey were arduous, and Beauty was beginning to tire when Ramsgate finally came into view. Even then, they had to be careful, because there were many loose stones that a horse might fall from. Beauty was unused to such terrain, and walked carefully, neighing unhappily.

Lord Robyn rode out to greet them with ten men, his face absolutely bursting at the seams with how hard he beamed at them all. He was _just overjoyed_ to meet the Tyrells, _unbelievably honored_ to host Princess Viserra, _quite delighted_ to see Desmond, and _utterly blessed_ to welcome Delena into their new home.

He said it just like that— _their_ new home. Viserra met Lady Florence’s eyes with similar expressions of incredulity. How could such a man be real? It nearly surpassed belief.

Nonetheless, the castle was clearly at it’s best. The welcoming feast was mostly sheep and beef, but artfully and creatively arranged, as if even the cooks in this place were eager to impress. It was oddly endearing, one of the charms small Houses had.

Viserra falls asleep when Delena had been breathing softly for ages already, likely already dreaming. Of her brilliant new life, all the names she would give to sheep and children alike, the happiness she would have. 

Viserra wants to be pleased for Delena, she does. She deserved a good match. In many ways, Delena and Lord Robyn had won a game that most of them never did, finding someone who would always listen, at the very least. Like Jaehaerys and Alysanne. Like Aemon and Jocelyn, Baelon and Alyssa. Always holding space for the other in their heart, no matter what.

Delena and Robyn had both won. Viserra has the terrible feeling that, in this particular game of love, she was the only loser.

* * *

Nonetheless, she was determined to push through.

On the morning of Delena’s wedding, their roles were flipped entirely, and Viserra was serving as handmaiden to Delena with Lady Tyrell assisting, and all of them were flitting around the room to prepare themselves for the festivities.

Delena’s gown was wrought of of cashmere sleeves and a linen body, the skirts in two layers with the beneath being a rosy pink and the above a pale blue. Together, they shimmered and shone until they appeared purple, the main color of House Woolfield. Her white sleeves boasted appliques that Viserra had discovered in the bowels of a Lorathi vessel, and she had produced it to great jealousy from all the noblewomen of White Harbor. Gifted to Delena and used on this gown, the golden designs turning all sorts of shades in different lights, reflecting the skirts and creating an illusion of shapeshifting.

She is beautiful. She is the moon herself. 

Viserra slips into her own iridescent gown, many shades of blue interwoven so it seemed she was swimming, using sapphire jewelry to complete her own preparations.

Oils are weaved through all their hair, subtle floral perfumes from the Riverlands applied to their wrists, collarbones, and neck, and the three of them take turns brushing each other’s hair until it gleans. Viserra crowns herself only with a plait encircling her head, leaving the rest loose in favor of spending her time placing small pearl pins throughout Delena’s amber locks. Little treats for Lord Woolfield to remove, gently and erotically if he knew how. 

By the time high noon arrives, there is not a piece of fabric out of place, and Viserra mourns that they have undergone such an elaborate production only to be witnessed by the odd forty guests. Alas, there was no running now. 

If only not to waste such beautiful gowns.

“Ready, my girls?” Lady Florence asks, holding a thick cloak with the Fossoway apple quartered by the Tyrell rose on it’s back. It was a show of support from one of the largest Houses in Westeros, a reminder of whose love Delena could always rely on.

Delena turns to Viserra, searching her face before taking her hand.

“Ready,” they say in unison.

* * *

The wedding takes place in front of a weirwood, the warm weather allowing red sap to flow plentifully down from the hideous face carved into the tree. The heart tree in White Harbor was much older, well, the one she had seen at least, and it rarely flowed this expresisvely. 

She watches the weeping tree, entranced, barely registering the words spoken to bond the bride and groom together, dutifully clapping when everyone else did and moving to give Delena her kisses. Lady Florence and Lord Martyn together had given Delena's hand away, a beautiful gesture.

 _Nobody gave me away,_ Viserra angrily recalls, then dismisses the feelings. What good would it do her to think of such a thing now? Better if she let herself forget.

A good glass of wine washed away the memory. She poured a second, for good measure.

* * *

“Shall the youths not dance?” Lord Tyrell bellows in a jolly tone, his hair all mussed from the lively feast. “What sort of wedding is it when the young people aren’t dancing! By the Gods, outside it’s spring but inside this hall it’s still winter, it seems!”

The guests all laugh, and Delena brings Viserra to dance a woman’s jig, kicking and twisting in a circle with their skirts flying all around them. By the end, they’re all flushed and somewhat sweaty, unrelenting joy rising from the hearty celebrations, Delena’s smile so wide it fills the entire room.

Lord Robyn matches her look, and he sweeps his new wife into his arms, engulfing her while they move back to enjoy the night in each other’s arms. 

Viserra smiled around her goblet of wine, throwing back her drink and relishing the delicious sensation.

With Theomore tucked safely away in his home, Viserra was enjoying herself more than she could have possibly expected. She even danced with knights, handsome fellows practically lowborn for all they were taught courtesies, but all so honored to take her hand. She let them cajole her into a dance now, and she span from arm to arm indiscriminately, letting her golden hair form a halo around her.

She lands in a pair of familiar arms, and exclaims, happy and drunk, when she recognizes her partner. “Lord Desmond!”

“Aye, Princess,” he greets her, smiling oddly at her excited reaction. She didn’t care to explain herself, for little did he know that he was one of the few decent dancers in the hall. He was as joyous as every other guest, however, and his cloak was long forgotten due to the heat rising from all the bodies around them.

“You will dance with me until I am perfectly satisfied,” she declares imperiously, and he nods his head in mock deference. 

“As you please, your Grace.” Good.

They move through the hall on light feet, and Viserra can hardly see her surroundings anymore through the pleasant blur of their movements.

“I am dreadfully sorry you know, for upsetting you at the inn,” she says, pouting and sweet like men enjoy. He had been cold with her since then, never speaking for long and keeping Lord Woolfield’s company instead. She wanted to do away with that and return to how they usually acted around each other, and an apology was merely words.

He spins her, pulling her back into his arms after. “Do not trouble yourself, Princess. I overreacted, I dare say.”

“Are you still upset with me, though,” she persists, wide-eyed gaze on him. The wine has her feeling quite out of sorts, and the thought of him being angry at her was suddenly unbearable.

“I was not truly upset with you Princess,” he assures her, surprisingly soft, “I rarely am.”

“Excellent,” she sighs, relieved, her head throbbing, “darling Desmond, I am quite dizzy now.”

He ushers her to their seats, remaining by her and calling for a cup of water for her to drink. She thanks him and drinks deeply, her wits coming back to her slowly.

She narrows her eyes and scans the crowd, turning to Desmond and motioning him closer to whisper something for his ears only.

“I am not sure who, but one of these vile men is going to call for a bedding soon.” She glares around the hall as if in warning.

Desmond only chuckles and snaps his fingers in front of her to bring her attention to him. She never noticed the calluses on his hands before now, and she stares at his hands openly.

“Princess, I think you will find that responsibility falls to me, as the highest ranking man in this hall.” 

She looks upon him in indignance, gasping loudly. “You wouldn’t!”

“Oh,” he is smirking, “I certainly would. It is tradition.” She smacks him on the shoulder, and he finds it hilarious.

“It is humiliating!”

He pours himself more wine. “Not at all. It’s the whole point of a wedding.”

“You only say that because you have never been through it,” she replies, grouching.

“I will soon enough, though,” he tosses back, winking. She sticks her tongue out and he laughs into his cups.

“For a woman, it is horrible!” she declares, insisting on her point. He just shrugs.

“I can imagine it isn’t comfortable. But is inspecting sheets any better? Or having a handful of maids hanging around to untangle a difficult dress, while some already naked man lies about? Seems the best way to get it done.”

“We’ll ask Lady Minerva how she feels about it, and then you shall see,” she mutters, but he still hears.

“Little Minerva, I assure you, has no shame whatsoever, and will probably find the whole thing very fun. I would be surprised if she did not give a few of the men carrying her black eyes just for her amusement,” he chuckles, loose and open as she’s rarely seen him before.

Viserra leans in to inspect his face closely. “Tell me true. Are you two already lovers?”

Desmond leans in the rest of the way, their noses almost touching. “You are so fucking drunk, Princess.” She pushes away, scoffing, and he throws his head back in deep laughter, the sound reverberating until she is laughing as well, drawing interested looks from around the room.

When she can finally catch her breath, she gives him another smack that he pretends to be hurt by. 

“You are terrible,” she moans, but there is no heat to her words. She picks up a pastry and eats it, her stomach suddenly feeling tight and empty. She has been filling it with wine all evening, and not enough food.

“Princess,” he says, wiping away a tear from how much he laughed, “allow me to redeem myself in your eyes a bit. It falls to me to call for a bedding, but between the two of us, I will not be doing so.”

“No?”

“No,” he lays his hand on his heart to show he is serious, “I spoke to Lady Delena and Lord Robyn before this, and they chose not to have a bedding ceremony. Soon enough, he will whisk her away before any of these circling sharks can place a paw on that gown of hers. Does that please you?”

“Yes, yes!” she claps in glee, “ah, so it is not the most important part of a wedding after all, is it?”

He snorts. “The important thing is that they bed each other. And there,” he points to where Delena and Lord Robyn have their arms wrapped around other, kissing softly even while they sway together, “are two people who will be bedding one another tonight if it is the last thing they do.”

“They will likely hold hands and stare into each other’s eyes as they make love into the rising sun,” Viserra mumbles, a dreamy quality to her voice. _That is what I thought wedding nights were like. That was all I wanted._

The thought makes her sad.

Before she can dwell on it, though, Lord Woolfield himself stands tall, and addresses the room.

“To all the scoundrels in this room, I fear I must disappoint you! For my wife and I will not need your help in being bed, and we now wish you all good eve while we go to make an heir!” He picks up Delena, who shrieks, and holds her in a bridal carry as insults made with love fly in their direction. Delena waves at Viserra, who grins and waves back, before the two of them unceremoniously exit the hall to bawdy jokes from the crowds around.

Viserra sighs, laying her head to rest on her arms in front of her.

“Think it’s time you are put to bed as well,” Desmond says kindly enough, a gentle hand on her back. His palm is warm. 

“You are being unusually agreeable,” she mumbles, eyes closed.

“So are you,” he challenges, and she flips her head so she is facing him. His pretty blue eyes are earnest upon her, and she does not mind having him in her gaze.

“I miss Faline,” she says simply, and he gives her a sympathetic look. “Aye, she would have loved this. But she wished to stay with my grandsire, in case his illness continues. He is like a father to her.”

She nods, and sighs again. When he stands and holds out his hand, it is only habit that keeps her from taking it, although she does end up leaning on him as she says her farewells to the Tyrells and allows Desmond to lead her to her rooms. She cannot quite recall where they are, and they keep getting twisted around, but he remains patient with her. Finally, they arrive at the door she remembers, and it is with great satisfaction that she pulls a key from her skirts. 

“Come have a drink, my Lord,” she implores him, not wanting to end the night just yet. She doesn’t sleep well in strange places, especially not by herself. The inn is recent proof.

“You have had enough to drink,” he chuckles, unlocking the door for her and gesturing for her to enter, “and besides, we have an early call tomorrow. First light.”

“Do we?” she asks, already grumpy, “I thought we left at midday, after the meal?”

He drops the key back in her hand, his expression devilish beneath the thick brown locks that have fallen into his face. “We do. But you will wake at first light, and wear clothes fit for riding. There is something you must see, your Grace.”

“Fine!” she calls, unlacing her gown deftly to allow air into her lungs. It was suffocating her, and she is glad to be rid of the constriction, the cool air on the skin of her slightly uncovered back a delight. She let out a moan of relief, collapsing onto the settee.

“Goodnight, grandmother,” he says, his tone strangely husky. When she opens her eyes again, he is already gone, the door shut tight behind him.

* * *

First light was, indeed, a struggle for her. After a cup of cocoa and a quick soak, however, she was feeling much more up to it, and she met Desmond in the dim courtyard only somewhat late. The sky was still mostly dark, only wisps of interruption and ambitious clouds around them. 

“Well?” she walks up to him, imperious as anyone can be at such an hour.

“Color me surprised,” he replies when he sees her, “didn’t think you would make it.”

“Why ever not?” Because she had to drag herself out from under the covers through sheer force of will?

He shrugs, and tugs on the reins to some grey speckled horse. Viserra has never seen the animal before that was neither his stallion, nor her Beauty. It was a hardier beast, thicker and more solid. 

“This here is Climber. He was trained for this terrain, and is one of the horses used when patrols go over the nearby hills to ensure nothing is amiss. He will be our mount today.”

“Our?” she inquires, confused.

He gives her a knowing look. “This is not a journey one makes alone if they are not accustomed to it, Princess. Lest you fancy a broken arm, and using snow to soothe the bleeding while praying for a patrol to pass by.”

She cocks her head, somewhat irritated now. “What journey? I won’t leave for Widow’s Watch until I’ve given Delena my farewells, my Lord.”

“Not to Widow’s Watch,” he shakes his head, and then nods at something behind her. When she turns, she squints, and can vaguely make out some mountains behind her. 

“The Stairway,” he announces, and Viserra blinks.

“We ride there?”

“Aye, on Climber. But we must begin now, the ride is long.”

“How long,” she turns to him, buzzing like a bee at the opportunity. She wanted to see this place brimming with magic Lord Robyn had spent nearly an hour droning on about at the welcome dinner.

“Hour, perhaps less, depends on the speed we make. Leave off your cloak, princess.”

“But it is cold,” she frowns.

“Too heavy,” he shakes his head apologetically, “mine is large enough for us both.”

She begrudgingly acquiesces, shrugging her cloak onto a hook on the stable and boarding the horse. A little cold was fine, her blood ran hot regardless.

The climb was difficult, and at a fearsome incline. Climber was a hardy animal, huffing but never stalling or whinnying as a more spoiled horse would have. Any steeper, and they would have needed a mule instead. She kept sliding back into Desmond on the leather saddle they shared, inching herself forward awkwardly until she finally gave up and let her back rest against his chest. Wisely, he said nothing about it, sweeping his cloak around her and letting her warm her hands within.

After a time, the birds chirping and leaves rustling faded into quiet, the deep forest full of frost concealing the rest of the world from him. She trusted that Desmond knew the way, for she had no idea where they were.

“Did Delena tell you to take me here, my Lord?”

He hums, noncommittal. “In a sense, aye.”

“Do you ever just say ‘yes’?” she huffs, and he laughs. His chest shakes behind her with the effort.

“Why should I? ‘Yes.’ Sound like some southron peacock when I say that, I do.” 

She makes an insulted noise. “Is that what you think of me, that I sound like a southron peacock when I speak?”

“Undoubtedly you are the most southroner peacock of them all, your Grace.”

“I will remind you that I do not even sound like most southerners! My accent is—”

“Valyrian, aye, we all know. And I will remind you that my accent is more southern than most others in the North, for my roots lie in the Reach.”

“Please, you Manderlys are such mummers, making the most ridiculous tales out of some thousand year old tragedy. You are all Northerners by now, no southern blood left to speak of.”

They pass the rest of the ride bickering softly, careful not to disturb the nature around them. The clopping of Climber’s hooves are a comforting rhythm to accompany them. She doesn’t even realize it when the branches begin to even out, the underbrush thinning and the darkness of the sky fading into a deep blue.

When they stop, her eyes adjust slowly, and she is suddenly glad to be sharing a horse. The cliff edge is a few horse lengths away, and she would have simply ridden directly over it had she been holding the reins…

Desmond jumps down, robbing her of the warmth of his cloak, securing the horse to a nearby tree. Viserra makes her way down as well, taking in the circle of stones overlooking the grand canyon beneath them, what seemed like mountain ranges in the distance. 

This place was called Sheepshead Hills, which she now knew was an exercise in humility. She peaks over the edge in curiosity, and the fall seems to descend straight into the Seven Hells.

Behind her, Desmond whistles as he gathers some low sitting branches. Snow still sat on the ground, so a fire would be much appreciated.

When they are seated, the cloak spread out beneath them atop some cleared ground, a small pot of snow melting into boiling water atop the miniature flame, Viserra looks out over the distance while Desmond brews them tea.

“I cannot believe Delena told you to do this. What will I do without her?” Viserra hums, unplaiting and replaiting her hair before gratefully accepting the warm drink.

“Well,” he says, settling back against the large collapsed tree trunk to their backs, “she did not tell me to bring you here, in truth.”

Viserra appraises him, brow raised. “Lord Woolfield, then?”

“Not him either.” 

Viserra scoffs. “Naturally you will keep me guessing until we are both old.”

He snorts a small laugh. “The answer is quite obvious, although of course it does not cross your mind. I brought you here of my own volition, Princess. I much enjoy this view, and when I overheard you saying you would like to see it, I thought to make the journey.”

“When did I say…,” she scowls at him in realization. _On the roof of the inn, through the open window._ “Eavesdropping upon the conversation of ladies is quite wicked of you.”

He had no shame, of course. “Mother have mercy. You should know better than to have such interesting conversations next to open windows, Princess.”

“Those were matters of my lady’s heart we discussed!”

“Aye, and you would have listened too if you were there.”

She puffs out a cloudy breath. “Perhaps, perhaps not. Anyways, keep that to yourself if you have any manners.”

“The tale of some lordling in silks that the lady loved, all while he loved you, and everyone went around loving each other in secret?” he teases, but there is an undercurrent in his voice. 

“Lord Hayford was not some lordling in silks,” Viserra insists, defending her former companion. “He was a knight at a young age, a true man. The same could not be said for many of the other heirs and spares hanging about the Red Keep.”

“Seems you returned his love, then,” Desmond states neutrally. Viserra makes a face.

“Leon? That is most untrue.”

The Manderly heir remains quiet, and the silence allows Viserra's thoughts to run wild. She should not need to explain herself, but after some time, she does so anyway.

“No, I truly never thought of Leon that way. He was...his position in court was precarious, to say the least. After everything that had happened, my parents could not have let me wed a man with any possibility of stain on him. I enjoyed speaking to him, though. He truly listened to me instead of just falling over himself to get a peek up my skirts.” The memory of that brings an ill-feeling to her chest. “He knew, too, that a marriage would not be possible. And then, after my injury—I suppose my father sent him away, for I did not see him again. None of us saw each other again.”

“The horse injury, when you attempted to flee?” Desmond clarifies, and she can only turn upon him in some offense.

“Flee? I never tried to flee my home. You think of my elder sister, my Lord.”

His brow furrows, she can make that much out in the still-dim morning. “Did you not? To escape your betrothal, after which you were injured falling from your horse and your arrival North much delayed?”

Viserra is struck silent, letting out an incredulous laugh once she can gather her thoughts. _Was this why he had been so cold to her when she first arrived?_

“I was not _fleeing my betrothal,_ Lord Desmond. I would _never_ shame my family in that way.” _In the way Saera had._ “My companions and I only travelled into the city for enjoyment, as we had done a dozen times before! We ate at a tavern and drank much to see me off, and then we raced back to the Keep so that my parents would not know I was gone.” She shudders at the memory, and slumps against the tree trunk behind them. She did not like to think of her accident, but she could not stop speaking. It was as if a river had burst open, the words she held tightly within finally pouring forth, drowning out all her common sense. “We were drunk and young and stupid. We’d raced before, a hundred times, and I always won. Only this time—only this time, my horse threw a shoe. I split my leg open nearly to the bone falling, and Leon carried me back to the Keep on his own horse.” 

Tears gathered, the pressure of the saltwater crumpling her face as they fell like raindrops onto her cheeks. She tried to show bravery and meet his eyes, but she could barely see him through the curtain of tears. “I ruined everything. I just wanted one last night of fun, but I ruined everything! I’ve been paying penance for that foolish race ever since, even after I could finally stand on my feet once more my punishment did not end. If I could go back, I would have come North meek and willing. Then maybe...maybe things wouldn’t be this way.”

The heels of her hands pushed into her eyes, valiantly attempting to stem the flow and failing miserably. Desmond’s cloth found it’s way into her hands at some point, as well as a faint, soothing touch on her back.

Eventually her muffled cries came to an end, and when she was only hiccuping, trying to catch her breath once more, only then did he speak.

“It seems to me, Princess,” he says, a queer sympathy in his words, “that you have suffered more than enough. Haven’t you?” A fresh sob broke it’s way from her throat, and when he tentatively reached out to soothe her, she did not throw him off, letting someone console her for once in her fucking life. Eventually her tears went away, as did his arms—the crushing weight in her chest did not.

“Three years and my father has not written to me even once,” she says, more to herself than him. “He is pleased to forget me, I am sure.”

“All because of one drunken mistake?” Desmond seems skeptical, and she lets out a hollow laugh. _Two drunken mistakes, actually._

“You do not know him as I do,” is all she says, drinking her now cold tea.

“No, I suppose not. We all know of King Jaehaerys the Wise, the Healer, the Conciliator. Not King Jaehaerys the father.”

Viserra does not respond.

“What is he truly like, then?” Desmond wonders aloud, and Viserra contemplates that for a time before she answers, finally arriving at one word to sum up all her thoughts.

“Powerful.”

That was the truth. Her father had so much power, a well-respected King with immense knowledge, a dragon and the most clever men in all Seven Kingdoms at his fingertips. A generous lord and husband. A father who did not love her, but ruled her life even from afar.

He wanted her to have a babe, had written it into his last letter. Lord Theomore had been supremely diligent in his bedroom attentions ever since receiving that letter, more than ever before. That was the power of Jaehaerys Targaryen. He could make an old man’s cock hard from kingdoms away.

Perhaps sensing she did not wish to speak further, Lord Desmond took it upon himself to take her mind away from it.

“I suspect you do not know this story, Princess, but I hardly knew my own father. A flash of his face, a handful of childhood beatings, my mother’s tears. Those are all I have of him, really.”

Viserra follows his words with rapt attention. Nobody in New Castle ever spoke much of Desmond’s father. The warped expression on Desmond’s normally handsome face tells her that is no accident.

“He was a man of worldly tastes. Drinking, whores, gambling, he loved those things. My mother fell sick, a pox from a whore he passed onto her, so I was fostered quite young to keep me away from her. They died within days of each other, some fight with pirates in a tavern that he should never have been in to begin with. And her, all alone in a sickbed, with me so far away. Grandfather rode to me himself, all the way to where I was fostered in Widow’s Watch.”

Desmond sucks his teeth, closing his eyes tight as if trying to bring the scents and sounds of that day to mind. “After me, White Harbor will be yours, my boy. You will be as my own son. That was my promise to your mother.” He smiles sadly, a hint of scorn at the edges of his mouth. “That was how he told me that my mother was dead. I had not seen her in a year.”

They sit for a time in the ruins of his terrible tale. Viserra wonders if she should not reach out and offer him some comfort, but could think of no words to do so with.

“That is why you have no taste for whoring,” she says instead.

“That is why I have no taste for whoring,” he agrees.

“You will be a fantastic Lord of White Harbor one day,” she tells him, so honest it shakes her. _He would be._

“I have to be,” he replies, his back straightening, “for her sake, I must be. Look over there now, Princess.” He nods in the direction of the cliff, his face utterly visible now, and when Viserra shifts—

The sun rises, spilling orange light all over the canyon and tall fir trees beneath them, the snow-peaked mountains full of pride, absolutely brimming with life and mystery. It was the mark of a new day, one she’d rung in with tears and was now healing from, surrounded by an enchanting land. It was spellbinding. She had no words, and no tears left.

In this moment, it is precisely what she needs. She falls into the magic of the sun rising just as the birds did, their delightful calls ringing loud from their forest perches.

“I know such a simple sight is likely unimpressive to you, princess—”

She doesn’t let him finish, interrupts him with emotion thick in her voice as peace replaced sorrow in her heart. “This is the most beautiful sight I have ever seen in my life.” 

After that, neither of them speak, content to greet the daylight in quietude.

* * *

During the ride back she had fallen asleep in the saddle, the past day catching up to her, and only awoken when Desmond shook her upon their arrival in Ramsgate once more.

She had a few hours to spend with Delena, and their heart-wrenching goodbye had torn even more tears from both girls. Thankfully, Lady Florence would remain in her niece’s company for a bit longer, to adjust the new bride to her life, and Viserra promised to visit on her return journey.

She threatened Lord Woolfield with castration by dragon’s bite if he caused Delena any pain, and the fear on his face warmed her all the way to Widow’s Watch.

They stayed at another inn, this time leaving Viserra to sleep alone, which of course meant she could not sleep at all. That restless evening was the most exciting part of their dreary, rain-heavy journey. Viserra's only respite came when they rode through the gates and discovered Lord Theomore was not present. Evidently, his illness had kept him in New Castle after all—Viserra could only thank the gods of disease for their mercy upon her.

She had no patience to have him grunting atop her in the state she was in. Wallowing over the loss of Delena from her everyday life, for she had not spent a single day away from her in three entire years. Without her close friend, she was adrift.

The only other person she knew well here was Lord Desmond, and he was naturally occupied by his own nuptials. Viserra attempted to become familiar with ‘Little Minerva,’ as Desmond called her, by showing her some of the jewelry she was willing to lend out, but the bride was more of a boy than a girl, and more of a wolf than a boy, and Viserra quickly ended that farce.

When Minerva had showed her the gown she would be married in, a drab thing more suited to a sailor than a high lady, Viserra thought of the gown she had planned to wear for this wedding, and wondered if she should not wear something else so as to not insult the bride. Alas, she had packed lightly per instruction, and no other appropriate options were available. Anyways, Viserra would have looked more beautiful than this wildling girl in a simple sack. It was no slight to be beautiful, indeed it was the one thing these Northerners could never take away from her. 

The day before the wedding, Lord Stark arrived, his own Flint wife ten years elder to her younger sister. Viserra liked _her_ much better, and she gave Lord Stark charming kisses on each cheek when he greeted her. 

He winked at her, grinning, and introduced her to his young son as ‘the gorgeous dragon princess of the North.’ Benjen was the boy’s name, a bright lad with all his father’s coloring. If Desmond’s prior concerns that she fancied the Warden of the North remained, he had learned well to keep his thoughts to himself.

* * *

The morning of the wedding was a painfully bright day, the sun made of shining swords. Viserra rose, the ladies she had been gifted by Lord Flint already up and chattering with their various duties about the castle. Viserra snapped at them for food and a bath, and began her preparations for the wedding with a cup of wine, frustration in her skin already.

By the time she was dressed, oiled, perfumed, coiffed, and cloaked, the ceremony was fast upon them, and she made her way there alongside Lords Stark, Flint, and their respective wives.

“Good heavens, you are a sight!” Lady Stark had exclaimed when she laid eyes upon her, and she brought over Lord Edric to confirm it. _His wife does not care if he thinks me beautiful, because she knows his heart is hers._ Viserra found that comforting, and respected such a marriage.

He whistled lowly, his boy on his shoulders. “Would that Valyria had never fallen, if it meant women such as you would roam far and wide.”

Viserra only laughed graciously, accepting shy Benjen as her escort to the godswood. 

Her cloak at least covered her for Desmond and Minerva’s wedding outside, the words of the Seven spoken in front of a heart tree—a strange clash, she thought, but none of the other guests seemed to mind. At the feast in the evening, she heartlessly abandoned the outer layer, and entered the hall only for the entire room to descend into a hush.

She smiles graciously, making her way to bow to her hosts as was proper, allowing the entire hall to greedily drink her in.

She wore only gold silk—draped onto her body as if it was water, the straps lying on her arms holding high a generous cleavage with only a simple golden dragon pendant cozily nestled between her breasts. Golden bangles gently tinkled against one another on her wrists, her crowning circlet simple in comparison to the layers of silver-golden braids that crossed over one another, creating a stunning effect. It had taken the girls nearly an hour to do her hair alone, and she had to chastise them several times for doing it incorrectly. 

“My unending thanks for your generous hospitality,” she murmurs, clasping her hands and gazing upon Lord and Lady Flint as well as Lord Desmond and his Lady Minerva from beneath hooded eyelids, her lips painted a shade of rosewood. “And my prayers for the newly married. May the Gods bless your union with much love and shared joy.”

“We thank you, Princess Viserra,” Lord Flint was quick to respond, a sharp man if small of stature. “We are most honored to host you. One of the first houses with such an honor in our lands, I believe.”

“Indeed,” she laughs agreeable, “and what a fine home this is, my Lord. A true shame it has taken so long to visit, I hope you may forgive me.”

“Beautiful princess, we will forgive you anything just to look upon you once more!” Lady Stark’s exuberant voice interrupts, bold in her humor. Lord Stark seems much entertained.

“Come, princess, will you do my lady the honor of sitting by her?” he stands, pulling an empty chair between he and his wife for her to occupy. Viserra inclines her head at her hosts once more, looking appraisingly upon the bride and groom. Lady Minerva only appeared bored, her knee bouncing, and Desmond’s face was blank when he met her eyes. 

She took her seat between the Starks, frowning to hear that Benjen was already put to bed. Nonetheless, Lady Stark seemed determined to ask her a thousand questions, touching Viserra’s hair constantly and even stroking her knee at times.

“My lady, if I did not know better, I might think you were seducing me,” Viserra simpers as she accepts a third cup of wine, her fourth of the day, and Lady Stark bats her green eyes. _Delena would have liked her._

“Arya, I do insist you call me Arya,” she replies, leaning in close to Viserra’s ear, “and who am I to argue with such a clever princess as you? If you say I am seducing you, then of course, I will oblige and seduce you.”

Viserra could not help but laugh, and accept a ladies’ dance from Lady Arya, whose sinful intentions were quite flattering. From the glint in Lord Edric’s eyes, she could tell Lady Arya’s inclinations were indulged in their bedroom, and that theirs was a very happy marriage indeed.

They were both beautiful people despite their common coloring, and Viserra found herself intrigued by the goings on of their sex life. Did she take the woman, or did he? Or both together? It was a scintillating line of thinking. That Edric reminded her of Baelon, the only man she had ever wished for in her bed...

Nonetheless, she is grateful for the gloves on her hands when Lord Edric comes to rescue her from the clutches of his wife, kissing Lady Arya before sending her on her way.

“I apologize for my wife, your Grace,” he tells her, grinning gloriously. In a mad moment, Viserra wondered what it would be like to kiss him, to fuck him and his wife. They certainly seemed up for it. Lord Stark’s hand skirting the portion of her back left bare rid her of that notion. She was not comfortable enough to even touch him, much less make love to him. 

She was healed all wrong, and brushed all temptation from of her mind. “Who said you should apologize, my Lord? Your wife’s affection is sweet as berries.”

“Sweeter even than that,” he promises darkly. 

“What a thought,” she remarks lightly, remaining coy. The invitation was obvious. She was pleased to have it. They danced amiably for a time, and she answered the questions he had about her life.

Unexpectedly, the song changed into a foreign yet familiar tune that startled Viserra.

A harp was a thing of beauty, something she has not had the pleasure to listen to since departing the capitol, and now it’s notes wash over her in an unskilled rendition of a Valyrian song of old. In her childhood, Viserra had been praised for her grace, to the point that teachers of dance had been brought from Volantis to attend her. She often danced for guests and feasts, ancient Valyrian styles of motion preserved by the former colonists of Valyria.

Her hands drop from Lord Stark, and those others on the floor look upon one another in confusion at the sudden change in tune. Viserra cast her eyes to her host, and Lord Flint is smug, obviously having arranged for the musician for her benefit, as a Princess of the blood. She curtsied—curtsied!—at him, unconsciously removing her gloves slowly and kicking her slippers to the side.

Perhaps she had drank too much, the spread of warmth in her limbs unstoppable as hazy memories came to the forefront of her mind. Without looking she knew the dancing couples had cleared the area, and that every eye in the hall was upon her now. Lady Minerva the bride was even ogling her curiously, Desmond not by her side but off somewhere in the crowd.

When nothing but the intoxicating music could be heard in the hall, Viserra shut her eyes and tilted her head back, instinctively arranging herself into an elegant arch, her hips beginning their intoxicating sway as the dance came back to her like a dear old friend.

* * *

When she collapsed onto the floor at the end, contorted enticingly and breathing heavily, there was complete silence for a moment, as the harpist concluded their song.

Only for a moment.

Then there was thunderous cheering, bawdy laughter and jokes throughout the hall and even some of the decorative flowers thrown upon her. She laughs from where she lies, mind murky.

A hand reaches down to her when the musicians return to their lutes, lyres, and windpipes, and she grasps it tightly as she rises, coming face to face with Desmond himself, who steadies her when she sways slightly. 

“That was quite a show, princess,” he begrudgingly compliments her, and she led him into a simple romp, swinging them back into the throng of revelers. Her heart was beating too fast, and she did not want to end the dancing just yet.

“Much obliged,” she says airily, riding the wave of doing something she truly loved once more. “Gods, I haven’t truly danced in ages! It puts the fire in one’s blood.”

“It put fire in the blood of every man in this room,” he huffs like Viserra's septa might have once.

“Not just men, my Lord,” she boasts, thinking of Lady Arya’s travelling hands earlier that night.

He does a snarky impression of an old crone. “It is very wicked of you to say such a thing, your Grace.”

“Mother have mercy,” she mumbles, missing a step. “Oh, I think I am quite peculiar now.”

“You always are,” he replies softly, sounding nervous. They aren’t dancing anymore, only standing a hair too close to one another. Viserra pouts when she rests her hands on his shoulders for balance. There was something odd happening, a spinning in her stomach and her mind alike, and it was not the serpent this time—she did not understand what she was feeling, and was about to say so.

Desmond opens his mouth as well, forming words doomed to die in his throat.

At that moment, Lord Stark stands tall, and roaringly calls for everyone knew was coming. _Bed, bed, bed!_ a sea of voices chanted, and Viserra grips the fabric of Desmond's shoulders, terrible memories coming to her of her own bedding so many years before.

She can faintly hear Lady Minerva’s ribald yelling, _aye, take my skirt, you green boys need it more’n I do!_ , even as women rush around Viserra, pushing her helplessly in their joyous tearing of the groom’s clothes, washing her along with them as they grab at every part they could, stitches ripping loudly and laughter melding into the unbelievable disarray that surrounds her. 

_Careful ladies, be sure not to break anything!_ she could feel more than hear the words reverberate through his chest, even as his arm wrapped around her waist and held her tightly to his side, ensuring she didn’t fall.

She held onto him just as well, until his shirt fell from his body, and then her bare arms were pressed against his skin, the muscles of his chest and stomach hard yet soft, confusing sensations against her. 

They must have stopped moving at some point, for Desmond was pressed to a door and Viserra could finally plant her feet firmly on the ground once more, still rocking back and forth to the rhythm of the suggestive jeers spouted from the mouths of women and men alike in the hallway, as they struggled to open the heavy chamber doors in all the chaos.

Viserra clung to him still, felt Desmond’s heart beating beneath her fingers, fascinated by the rushing of his lifeblood. His only free hand crawled atop hers, clasping her fingers tightly in his, and she turned her face upwards…

Only to find him. All she could see was him.

Her lips part in surprise at the intensity of his gaze. She had never seen him look at her like this, so completely unreadable, and she did not dare tear her eyes away. They stood like stone, pressed close, their hands joined above the very heart of him as her panic receded from her. The world was reduced to their shared breathing, and the delirium of the wine faded slowly away.

The door behind them opens, and he stumbles backwards, their hands melting apart. 

Heavy oak swings shut in her face, and Viserra felt as if she’d been thrown from her horse again, not knowing what had just happened. Except it was not like the last time—there was no pain, no sensation of oil spreading across her skin. 

When she looks down, she finds only her bare hands, her gloves lying abandoned in the feast hall.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading!


End file.
